If Jesus Were the Sheriff
by Chasing Liquor
Summary: Beth's heart broke a little to see that burdened look on his face—the guilt in his eyes. He'd been alone for so long, even before Lori passed... Rick/Beth
1. If Jesus Were the Sheriff

**A/N:** Salutations! This is my first story in the world of "The Walking Dead." I've become very invested in the Rick x Beth pairing, and have been thrilled to see a number of great stories centered around them pop up. I wanted to contribute!

The plot I've drawn up here will probably run two or three chapters, but I may end up extending it if people enjoy it and the principal characters have escaped unscathed. Please leave a review and let me know what you think! It makes it all worthwhile and is deeply appreciated.

This story's title is taken from the Bruce Springsteen song, "If I Was the Priest."

* * *

**If Jesus Were the Sheriff**

* * *

He wondered if it was just his imagination.

A lot of women are tactile, especially the sweet ones. And those warm, lingering smiles—maybe that was just a broken man misperceiving time. He wasn't the most psychologically sound person on planet earth right now.

But sometimes, when she walked by, he could swear she purposefully brushed past him. When he entered a room, he could swear her body stiffened. Her voice, feminine and small, seemed to hum with some electricity when she addressed him.

Or maybe he was just crazy.

Rick leaned back to give the appearance of relaxing, eyes sweeping across the road in front of them.

"How far you gonna push it?" Glenn asked from the passenger seat.

Rick shrugged his shoulders, stealing a glance at Beth in the rear-view mirror, before replying: "I think we could make it to Clayton and back without much trouble. Wouldn't wanna go any further."

"It's a small town," Glenn said. "You think we'll find anything?"

"Clayton's not on the way to anywhere. If we're lucky, it hasn't been picked through yet."

Beth looked out the window, watching the trees zip past like a flip-book. Her momma had always liked those. There was this one they used to look at that showed a cat and a dog playing together. Beth couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a dog. Had to be before all this started.

"You okay back there?" Rick's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

She smiled at him in the mirror, finding herself enjoying the concerned look on his face.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Just nice to get outta that prison for once. Not that I don't appreciate it—it's sort of like home now, I guess—but all that concrete and wire gets in your head, y'know?"

Rick smiled back. "I know what you mean."

He held her eyes in the mirror for longer than he meant to, and he looked away quickly when her face began to flush. If Glenn noticed, he didn't say anything. He seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, some mixture of pensiveness and disdain on his face. Rick gave him an appraising look.

"Something on your mind, Glenn?"

His friend opened his mouth, then closed it. After some consideration, Glenn said: "I'm just thinking I don't like both of us being gone at the same time."

"They got Daryl back there to look after things. And besides, this is important. I needed you—" Rick paused, glancing back at Beth. "—_both_ of you on this one. We can't protect anyone without guns and ammo."

Beth looked down to hide her smile. She knew he was only placating her by saying he needed her—she'd had to talk him into letting her come, after all—but the fact that he'd thought about her feelings gave her a thrill.

Glenn nodded, but a dark look crossed his face. "I know. You're right. But we wouldn't be down any guns if—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Nevermind."

Rick could understand his frustration. He shared it, in fact. But it wouldn't do them any good now. "What's done is done. And anyway, it's my fault. I'm the one who said we needed to let the other group take watches. Should've known better than to leave a teenager to guard the armory."

Beth frowned. "It ain't your fault, Rick. You can't take all the shifts yourself. Sooner or later, we gotta trust people."

Though he appreciated her effort, Rick didn't appear convinced. For the hundreth time, he pictured everything in his head.

David, the Woodbury kid, took the midnight shift guarding the guns in the armory. Sometime around three or so, the kid got sleepy. He took a pillow into the adjoining corridor—telling himself he'd only rest his eyes a minute. When he woke up, there a was gang of men—maybe six of them altogether—hurriedly loading the guns into bags. David didn't dare confront them. He turned tail and sprinted until he was back in the main cell block, shouting to anyone who would listen.

By the time Rick and Daryl reached the armory, the men were long gone. The only evidence they'd ever been there was the mangled door to the outside, which had been subjected to some kind of small explosive, and the person-sized hole in the fence surrounding the building.

Rick's complacency—letting a teenager guard the armory and not posting someone outside near that part of the perimeter—had lost them the majority of their arsenal.

Seeing the recrimination on his friend's face, Glenn felt a measure of guilt. He forced a smile and said, "I bet you're right. Clayton's out of people's way. I'm sure we'll find something."

But Rick wasn't listening. Beth's heart broke a little to see that burdened look on his face—the guilt in his eyes. He'd been alone for so long, even before Lori passed, that he truly believed everything was his fault, that he kept letting everyone down. He'd been taking care of everyone with such singular focus that he probably wouldn't even know what to do with comfort if it was given to him.

Beth decided that Rick wouldn't be alone anymore.

* * *

They left the SUV in the parking behind the town's only pharmacy. Beth viciously suppressed a smile when Rick suggested that Glenn pick the place clean, leaving the two of them to explore Main Street together.

There were no walkers around, which Beth was grateful for. As she and Rick walked, she tried to put the right distance between their bodies—too close to be casual, too far to be intimate. She could have sworn he inched toward her, but maybe she imagined it.

"We lookin' for a gun shop?" she asked.

Rick nodded, scanning both sides of the street and ignoring how good she smelled. "Yeah. But we'll check the bar too, and the corner store. Lot of 'em keep them under the counter."

A charming picture of Rick in his sheriff's uniform filled her mind. She could see him walking into a pub in King County, clean-shaven but tired-looking, as he assessed the danger and calmly asked the two parties to explain their conflict.

"You must miss it. Being a sheriff, I mean," Beth said, an admiring smile on her face. "You must've been so good at it. People trust you, and you've always got plan, and you keep so strong for everyone—" She stopped herself and trailed off with a quiet, nervous laugh.

Rick narrowed his eyes, studying her, but he couldn't help the smile that played on his face. "I guess I was pretty good at it. Used to think the job was hard." His eyes had a rare teasing quality. "Now? Hell, I'd sell my soul for a simple armed robbery."

"You should take more care with your soul," she chided lightly. "You only get one." It was meant to be playful, but for some reason, Rick frowned slightly. She added, a little desperately, "—and yours is special."

It was a surprise when, after a long moment, Rick chuckled. At her confused expression, he gave her a warm smile, then looked away. "You are _relentlessly_ supportive."

Her stomach twisted in knots. She fought the urge to grab his hand.

"So are you," she said shyly.

* * *

The bar was a bust. There was nothing under the counter; the only gun in the place was an antique blunderbuss being displayed on the far wall. They had a little more luck at the corner store, where Rick smashed open a lock box to reveal a Smith & Wesson semi-automatic pistol. They shared a triumphant grin before Rick secured the gun in his waist band and suggested they move on.

When they were leaving the store, Beth gasped as Rick's arm shot out to block her path. He held a finger to his lips to shush her and nodded his head toward some commotion down the street. She followed his eyes to a pair of cars rolling to a stop a couple blocks away.

Rick lightly grasped her arm, crouching down and pulling her with him. The railing in front of the store concealed them.

He watched the car doors open, as two groups stepped out—six men altogether.

"Who are they?" Beth wondered aloud softly.

They looked relatively young—no older than forty—and even from a distance it was clear they were well-built. Rick couldn't be sure, but he thought saw fatigues on them. They might be the survivors of a Guard or Army unit.

He watched patiently as they opened the back hatch of one of the cars. They began unloading a series of bags. One of the men held his the wrong way and the contents came spilling out. Rick squinted to identify the cargo, and a cold look crossed his face.

"Are those guns?" Beth asked.

Rick snarled. "_Our_ guns."

* * *

"It's a doctor's office, from what we could tell," Rick said. "I donno if they're holed-up there or just making a pit-stop, but they took the guns in with them."

Glenn glanced at Beth, who wore a false placidity. She wasn't used to all of this, but was determined not to make Rick regret bringing her.

With a disgusted sigh at their predicament, Glenn gestured to the SUV. "If we're gonna hit 'em, we need to get back to the prison, get Maggie and Daryl—maybe a couple others—and make a plan."

Rick glanced down and wiped his face, then leaned forward as he was prone to do when delivering bad news. His eyes were cold and resolute. "We don't know how long they're staying here," he reasoned. "We leave now and that might be it. Once they're on the road again, those guns are _gone_."

Beth looked between them a little timidly. She trusted Rick implicitly, but an uneasy feeling was rising in her. "What are you saying, Rick?"

"We hit 'em _hard_, we hit 'em _now_," Rick insisted, pointing down for emphasis. "Glenn and I'll go in—you'll be around the corner with the car going. We'll take as much as we can and get the hell out."

That uneasy feeling seized her lungs. His plan was dangerous, and the thought of waiting at a safe distance while Rick (and Glenn) assumed the risk was suffocating. She knew, objectively, that she wouldn't be much use, but that didn't negate the overwhelming need she felt to protect the sheriff.

Glenn's sigh pulled her from her thoughts. He narrowed his eyes at Rick. "Two of us against—what—six of them?" He shook his head incredulously. "That's some real cowboy shit, Rick."

The sheriff glanced down, taking a breath. Then he looked up with a faint smirk.

"Yeehaw."


	2. It's Calling Me to Shine

**A/N:** Salutations! Thanks so, so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. I really appreciate folks taking the time to leave feedback, especially those long, thoughtful notes, as that makes it all worthwhile.

I should give a shout-out to Mrs. Pepperpot, whose stories gave me the idea to use the "Beth singing" convention. And I'll also note that this chapter has some tough imagery. But considering you all watch "The Walking Dead" on a weekly basis, I'm sure you can handle it. :)

I hope you enjoy this installment, and let me know what you think.

* * *

"Things'll move fast once they start," Rick said, "so keep the engine on." He spun the chamber on his Colt 357 to make sure it was fully loaded. "If you get crowded by walkers, I want you to circle back 'til you're clear. Just stay off Main Street; I don't want you in the middle of anything."

Beth nodded, but her bright eyes were vacant. She looked absolutely terrified. Rick grasped her arm gently and leaned down so their eyes were level.

"Beth?" he prompted. "You listening?"

She blinked her eyes a few times, like she were waking from a dream, before finally nodding. Rick smiled encouragingly.

"If it looks like we're—" He paused. "If we don't come back—"

Beth found her voice. "I'm not leavin' without you." When Rick sighed, she raised her chin defiantly. "I'll sit in that car the rest of my life if you ain't in it with me."

Something flashed across his face, forming and dissipating before Beth could identify it. It could have been frustration or affection; he had cause to conceal either. She set aside her girlish hope as Rick straightened up.

He gave her an indulgent nod.

"Okay," Rick said, ghosting a smile. "Guess I'll be back then."

He holstered his gun and glanced at Glenn, who was over by the car securing a kevlar vest over his shirt.

Beth followed Rick's eyes, frowning. "Where's yours?"

"Only got the one left. Those fellas in town took the rest of 'em."

Her nose wrinkled unhappily, but she didn't say anything. There was something appealing about seeing her riled-up. She was so calm usually, and Rick appreciated that about her, but it made it doubly endearing then to see her in a huff.

Beth gave him a questioning look and Rick cleared his throat and glanced off. "All right then," he said, chastising his mind for its wrongful thoughts. "We should prob'ly get moving."

As he stepped off to join Glenn, a delicate hand caught his wrist. His eyes trailed down his own arm to Beth's fingers. She didn't notice, but his breathing shallowed slightly.

As he met her eyes, she said, "Please be careful." Her grip slid down to his knuckles. "I don't know if those guns can be replaced, but I know you can't be."

Rick tried not to look at her pink lips as the words spilled out. He felt an ungentlemanly sensation and a rush of self-loathing. When he gave her a small nod, Beth released him, and Rick moved away quickly.

Glenn's face was carefully neutral as he received his friend at the car.

* * *

It was quiet on Main Street.

The dearth of walkers was almost eerie. It could've been that the thieves had cleared them out, or maybe the herd had just moved on for lack of food. Whatever the case, it made things easier.

Rick and Glenn moved silently along the storefronts.

The doctor's office was flanked by a flower shop and a diner, with a hardware store directly across the street. The gang's two cars sat unguarded outside.

The façade of the office had two large windows on either side of the front door. Rick crouched down, gun drawn, and sidled to the window on the far side, while Glenn crouched down below the other one.

Rick poked his head up, peering in the window. The place was small, with a reception area, two examination rooms, a storage room, and a working physician's office. Rick saw two men in the reception area. They were sitting casually: one had his feet up, flipping through an old magazine; the other was eating a bowl of soup. But Rick couldn't see the other four.

"Shit," he whispered.

Glenn kept his voice low. "You see 'em?"

"Two of 'em. Others could could be anywhere."

Glenn reached into his pocket to double-check his extra clip. Then he rested his head against the building. "Wha'do we do?"

Rick's eyes scanned the rest of the street, and Glenn could see the gears turning in his head. He peeked up through the window one more time. "We're gonna have to split up," he whispered. "You need to create a distraction. I'm gonna go in around back."

Glenn nodded dutifully. Rick reached over and gave him a brotherly pat on the chest, then slid by him. When he was past the window, Rick stood upright again and trotted into the alley.

* * *

Beth listened to the low hum of the engine. She tapped a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel, her breath coming in uneven spurts. She was scared—utterly afraid.

Beth was no hero; she knew that. Some people are born with it, while the gene had skipped her. But for perhaps the first time, there was a part of her that wasn't satisfied with waiting in the wings.

She thought back on the last ten months, how she'd watched the world die and somehow lived on. She thought about how she and her sister and her dad would all be dead now if not for Rick Grimes. Simply on its own merits, Rick's ability to tame this savage world and protect the group was incredible. But it was made more impressive when one considered how gentle his spirit was. Rick was kind, a nurturer in his own way; he valued compassion over conflict. Every heartbreaking decision, every act of violence, took its toll on him. She had no idea how he kept it all together.

It's not right to speak ill of the dead, even in your mind, but Beth never understood the way Lori let him suffer. He needed tenderness, softness—a loving touch to counteract the cruel world he shielded the group from.

No matter how many men he killed, he'd always be a saint to her. He was their savior.

Thinking about what he meant to her and about what danger he was in was making her frantic. She needed to calm herself.

Beth thought of her dad reading from the Bible, and about Judith's smile. Then she thought about Rick's smile, and the way he looked in clean clothes after a shower. And as subsequent visions of him continued to fill her mind, she remembered a song she'd heard her mother play once.

With a tense look, Beth began to sing softly.

_Well, there's a light on yonder mountain_

_and it's calling me to shine_

_There's a girl over by the water fountain_

_and she's asking to be mine_

_And ain't that Jesus, he's standing in the doorway_

_with a buckskin jacket, boots and spurs, so really fine_

_He says, "We need you up in Dodge City, son_

_'Cause there's oh so many bad boys trying to work the same line"_

* * *

Rick winced as the door whined from rust. He opened it just enough to let him slide through.

There were no lights. The only illumination came from outside. Though the shelves were stripped bare, Rick recognized the supply room. There was a door along the far wall that would lead into the reception area.

Rick crept across the room, listening for clues that might reveal the men's locations. He thought he heard voices in the physician's office, and the two men in the reception area were still chatting.

When he reached the door, he allowed himself a deep breath. He massaged the handle of his Colt.

* * *

Glenn circled past the cars, looking about for inspiration.

Firing his gun would get their attention, but they might come out blasting. He glanced back at the hardware store, noting its huge display window and solid oak door, then swept his gaze over the road. About ten feet away, Glenn saw a rusted tire iron peaking out from beneath junk and debris.

With a tense glance at the doctor's office, he moved low-to-the-ground and retrieved the iron, then scurried back out of sight behind the cars.

Glenn cocked the iron back near his ear. But a moment before he swung it, a blurry figure crept into view. He whirled around, ready to strike, but found himself looking into the warm brown eyes of a golden retriever. It had a leash on its collar, but no one to hold it.

"Jesus Christ," Glenn groused, letting out a breath. "Get outta here!" he whispered harshly. "Go on—_get_!"

The dog wagged its tail and seemed to look at him imploringly. Glenn took a threatening step forward and whispered again: "Get outta here!"

While not looking especially frightened, the dog let out a low whine and trotted away. Glenn watched until it disappeared around a corner and out of view.

When it was gone, Glenn took a long, calm breath, a fleeting image of Maggie drifting through his head. Then he smashed out a car window with his tire iron.

* * *

In the reception area, the Man With His Feet Up leapt out of his chair and grabbed his AKMS assault rifle. The Man With The Soup set aside his meal and took up his own weapon.

"What the fuck was that?" a third man with blue eyes asked, entering from another room. When the other two said nothing, he grabbed an MP5 submachine gun and headed for the door. His comrades followed.

The Blue-Eyed Man led them into the street, sweeping his eyes left to right. There wasn't a soul in sight, though—man, walker, or otherwise. He gave the other two a glance, and they took its meaning and began to fan-out.

The Man With His Feet Up slowly approached the cars. When he reached the front bumper of the far one, he could see that the driver's side window was broken, shattered glass scattered across the street.

He didn't see the door to the hardware store cracked open, or Glenn's gun barrel poking out.

A gunshot ripped through his right temple, dropping him dead to the pavement.

The Man With The Soup snapped his eyes over to his fallen friend. "Bill!" He and the Blue-Eyed Man rushed toward the hardware store, firing a storm of bullets that shattered the display window and turned the front door into swiss cheese.

Inside, Glenn pressed his back against the wall, arms squeezed against his sides to try to stay clear.

* * *

Rick kicked the door open.

A dark-haired man, distracted by the chaos, whirled around in time for Rick to blow him away. The force of the shot sent him sliding on his back into the reception area.

Rick moved quickly through the small hallway, circling around the man's body. Straight across the room, a bearded man with an Uzi took aim and fired. Rick growled as a bullet skimmed his chest before he spun back to the hallway to safety.

The Bearded Man continued shooting, and Rick narrowly avoided a few ricochets. Rick poked his gun around the corner and fired two blind shots that missed their mark.

Outside, the bullets were still flying, and Rick spared a moment to hope Glenn was holding his own.

* * *

The Man With The Soup and the Blue-Eyed Man blanketed the building with fire. Glenn stood rigidly while wood and plaster and concrete were ripped up all around him.

He'd grown accustomed to being overpowered and out-manned, but this was something else entirely. Pinned down, with nowhere to go and the store exploding around him, Glenn shut his eyes and got used to the idea that his group's own guns would kill him. Irony is a savage thing.

But when the shooting stopped suddenly, Glenn's eyes snapped open.

Outside, the Blue-Eyed Man let the empty magazine drop out of his MP5. He rifled through his pockets, while the Man With The Soup reloaded his own gun.

"Fuck!" the Blue-Eyed Man grumbled. "I'm out!"

They were caught off-guard when Glenn wheeled around and fired through the display window. As they scurried for cover behind the car, Glenn clipped the arm of the Man With The Soup, who collapsed behind a tire.

The Blue-Eyed Man drew his sidearm, leaning over the hood to return fire and forcing Glenn to spin out of harm's way. He glanced at The Man With The Soup, who sat holding his arm with a grimace.

The Blue-Eyed Man leaned down and thrust his comrade's gun into his lap. Then he smacked his face a few times. "Wake up!" he demanded. "I'm going around back. You keep on his ass! He doesn't move—got it?"

The Man With The Soup clenched his teeth, but nodded, releasing his injured arm and gripping his rifle. When Glenn poked his head out again, he climbed to his feet and laid down suppression fire—forcing Glenn to take cover and giving the Blue-Eyed Man time to sprint to the nearby alley.

* * *

The Bearded Man let out a final volley of fire, then tossed aside his empty Uzi, reaching behind him for a shotgun.

Rick leaned out and got a shot off, but it sailed wide. The Bearded Man pumped and fired, and Rick narrowly escaped as the shell ripped off a chunk of wall near his head.

Two more blasts followed, before Rick leaned out again. But as he squeezed the trigger, there was a click and no gunshot. His Colt was empty. He drew out of sight again, cursing under his breath.

The Bearded Man chuckled darkly. "I know that sound," he sneered. "I've got you now, mother fucker!" He pumped his shotgun again. "You hear that? I'm gonna—"

Rick drew his other gun and shot him between the eyes.

The Bearded Man's head snapped back so hard it made a crater in the wall, before he crumpled to the ground. Rick gave a grateful look to his Smith & Wesson—the one he'd found in the corner store. Then he crossed the room carefully, stopping beside the Bearded Man to shake his head. "Dumbass," he muttered.

There was at least one man left.

Rick turned and trained his gun on the physician's office. He inched toward the darkened room, eyes scanning for a human figure. He stopped in the doorway and peered inside, but there was no one there.

A pair of huge arms came from behind, closing around his throat in a choke-hold. Rick gasped violently, dropping his gun. He grabbed his attacker's wrist, but the arms didn't budge; they were thick as tree trunks.

With each breath denied, Rick's vision grew hazier. He was losing the fight.

He forced all his weight against his attacker and drove him back into the reception area. The grip remained, but Rick had him reeling slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Bearded Man's corpse and drove them toward it.

His attacker tripped over the body, releasing his hold, and both men spilled to the floor.

Rick got the upper-hand, straddling his chest and raining down punches on the man's face, which was scarred from previous battles. Left, right, left, right—Rick pummeled him with brutal fists. The blows knocked some teeth out, as blood splattered from his mouth onto Rick's clothes.

In a concussed daze, realizing his end was imminent, the Scar-Faced Man drove a hard knee into Rick's thigh, stopping the beating. He followed it with a head-butt that sent Rick reeling onto his back.

Then he pounced on top of Rick and closed his hands around his throat, squeezing the sheriff's trachea. Rick was already weakened and disoriented, and though he struggled, he couldn't get free. He pressed his palm into the man's face, raking at his eyes to no avail.

"Die, you son of a bitch!"

The world got darker, distant. His mind wandered from his predicament. He saw Carl and Daryl, Lori and Beth. Shane and Andrea and Amy. Rick pictured his son in the prison bowels, answering the same disconnected phone that had haunted him. He imagined Carl looking up at the catwalk and seeing his apparition.

His time was over.

The Scar-Faced Man screamed in agony, releasing Rick's throat.

Beth Greene stood behind him, her knife plunged into his shoulder. The Scar-Faced Man shoved her off, then staggered to his feet. Beth was on her back, staring terrified into the man's cold eyes.

Rick struggled off the floor, barely keeping his balance, and kicked his legs out from under him. The Scar-Faced Man fell to the ground, writhing momentarily, before climbing to his knees. But Rick was ready—hammering his face with the heel of the shotgun.

Laid out on his back, the Scar-Faced Man was staring down the barrel now, Rick's finger curled around the trigger. "No!" he screamed. "No—don't!"

Rick fired point-blank and the man's head exploded in a million pieces, covering him and Beth in blood and skull and brains.

The sheriff stared numbly at his work, then looked down at his own filthy body. He blinked a few times, dropping the shotgun, before his eyes locked with Beth's. He found terror and relief and a more permanent emotion there. He stared at her for a long moment, before staggering back and falling to the ground.

Beth scrambled over to him, catching his head before it hit the floor. She helped him to a seated position, her hands roaming all over him—his arms and chest, then his face. She put her hand to her mouth to moisten it, then wiped some blood off his cheek.

"Rick?" she whispered, caressing his face. "Rick, are you okay? Are you all right?"

The sheriff breathed greedily, willing his mind to catch up to his instincts. His vision was becoming clearer, his thoughts more cogent. He blinked a few times, and finally looked with recognition into the blonde girl's eyes. "Beth?"

She laughed shakily. "Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?"

Rick nodded slowly, but a chastising frown formed. "You don't listen too well, do you?" He tried to speak harshly, but it was closer to affection.

It took him by surprise when Beth said nothing, tears in her eyes, and after a moment of indecision, pressed her soft lips to his forehead.

Rick hardly had time to process it before Glenn's scream cut through the air.

"_**RICK!**_"


	3. In This Earthly Domain

**A/N:** Hello, all! Once again, thanks so very much to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter. I love hearing folks' thoughts, and it makes the writing process very rewarding.

This chapter's title and excerpt are from Bob Dylan's gorgeous masterpiece, "When the Deal Goes Down." I hope you enjoy the latest installment, and please let me know your thoughts!

* * *

Glenn's scream snapped Rick out of his daze. He struggled clumsily to his knees, then rose to his feet with Beth's arms around him for support. He leaned heavily for a moment, making her stumble, but she managed to hold him up.

When he found his footing, he eased out of her grasp and grabbed the shotgun. "Stay here," he mumbled.

"Rick—"

"Get the guns together," he said, "and stay away from the windows."

Before she could object, Rick was throwing the door open and rushing outside.

The Man With The Soup leaned over the car hood, spraying bullets at the store.

Inside, Glenn stay pressed against the wall while keeping an eye on the back entrance. He wiped his palms on his pants, then regripped the gun.

The Blue-Eyed Man blew the lock off the back door and burst inside. Glenn couldn't see him, but popped off a few warning shots. The Blue-Eyed Man returned fire, missing him by inches.

"_**RICK!"**_

Rick circled around the car. He whistled, causing the Man With The Soup to turn, and blasted him in the chest.

"Glenn, you're clear!"

The Blue-Eyed Man sprung out firing from behind an aisle. Glenn dodged the shots and dove through the window, scrambling around the car to take cover next to Rick.

Rick touched his friend's shoulder. "Glenn, you good?"

Glenn nodded quickly. He breathed in pants, sweat falling into his eyes.

Rick peered over the hood into the store, but saw nothing. "I'll take care of this. Go help Beth—she's inside."

Glenn nodded, pushing himself up and bolting for the doctor's office.

Rick advanced carefully to the store, shotgun mounted against his shoulder.

Glass crunched under his boots as he stepped inside. A light breeze rang chimes by the entrance. Sunlight poured over the aisles, but there were dark corners it couldn't reach.

Rick squinted his eyes and swept his aim across the length of the store. Nothing moved an inch.

"You know, we can talk about this," Rick called out, voice gravelly from his injuries. "I'm awful sorry for what's happened, but you didn't leave us any choice." He walked to the far aisle, rounding quickly but finding air. "You came into our house and you stole from us."

He glanced over the cashier's counter. The floor was full of dusty bills and ripped-open battery packs.

"If you wanna settle this like gentlemen, I'll oblige you," Rick said, moving cautiously down the aisle. "Or we can do it the other way—if that's what you really want."

The floor creaked behind him.

He spun back to face the Blue-Eyed Man, who grabbed hold of the shotgun and forced Rick to fire inadvertently, blowing a shelf apart as they grappled for control. Neither gained any leverage, but Rick's head was swimming.

The Blue-Eyed Man changed momentum, pushing instead of pulling—and he drove Rick back into a rack of tools. The metal hangers dug into his back, but Rick held on, and a quick head-butt forced the Blue-Eyed Man to release his grip.

Rick's vision was blurred; he felt faint and heavy.

He clumsily racked a shell while the Blue-Eyed Man drew his pistol. And at the last instant, Rick lifted the shotgun and blew his hand off.

The Blue-Eyed Man howled and dropped to the floor, bone and sinews scattered, his sidearm nowhere to be found. He shook violently, staring at his missing palm with disbelieving eyes.

Rick shuddered, his own blurry eyes imbibing his brutality. He had a vacant expression when Beth came bounding through the door.

"Rick!"

He stood hidden in silhouette, face blacked-out to her, while the sun bathed her in light. Her blonde hair, a little messy, cascaded perfectly down her face. Her cherub features were tight with worry.

Rick looked down at the Blue-Eyed Man bleeding out before him. A deep crease formed in his forehead. "I'm sorry," he whispered. The Blue-Eyed Man only wheezed and stared at him.

"Rick?" Beth's voice was like music.

It was only right to put the man down—end his suffering. But as Rick watched Beth, pure and earnest, he couldn't raise the gun. With a final glance, Rick stepped around his body and walked to the door.

Beth grasped his arm lightly. "Are you okay?" He nodded. She looked past him to the Blue-Eyed Man, who didn't appear to be moving. "Is he—?"

"Yeah," Rick lied.

She wasn't sure if the far-off look in his eyes was from concussion, or from the weight of what he'd done. Either way, she wanted to touch him, to reassure him, to proclaim he wasn't alone because she wouldn't let him be. She wanted to tell him that he needn't be strong where she was concerned. And she wanted him to tell her something that might not be possible.

Instead, she nodded slightly and held his elbow as they walked out to meet Glenn.

The sight of his friend seemed to sober Rick, who straightened his back again. "You all right, Glenn?" When he received a nod in reply, Rick glanced past him to the gun bags piled on the street, and said: "You two bring the car around. I'll wait here with 'em."

Beth thought to protest, but a look from Glenn prevented it.

When he was alone, Rick ambled tiredly to the gun bags and sat down beside the pile. As he tried to lean forward, he could feel his back tighten. His throat felt raw. He put a hand on his chest, grunting as he found the spot where the bullet skimmed him. And his head was still foggy.

His eyes fell on a rifle peeking out from one of the bags.

Five human lives: that's what he'd destroyed to get back what belonged to him. He could rationalize it—think about all the lives he'd save at the prison thanks to these guns. It was an easy explanation. But you pile up enough explanations and there's no rules left to live by—and nothing to connect you to what you wanted to protect.

Rick rested his chin against his chest, feeling a bone-deep weariness.

A lone whine disturbed the quiet, and Rick looked up to find a restless golden retriever standing by the cars. It stared at him for a long moment, then gave a needy bark and glanced at something Rick couldn't see. He stood up gingerly.

The dog bounced backward and growled. As the sheriff limped over, he saw a hand claw slowly at the pavement. The dog barked louder.

Rick circled around and looked down at the Man With the Soup, whose teeth gnashed as he peered up with yellow eyes. Without expression, Rick lifted his boot and smashed the head like a pumpkin.

The dog stopped its mewling and looked at Rick. Its tail wagged tentatively.

Rick crouched down, examining it for bites before rubbing its head. He checked its collar, finding a rabies tag from another town and a name plate reading: "Chance."

Rick smiled faintly. "Chance," he drawled, scratching its chest. "You're a long way from Cedar Mills. You must be awful smart or awful lucky."

The dog leaned into him, and after another minute of Rick's affections, began to lick his wrist. He felt so pathetic for the comfort it brought him.

* * *

Rick insisted they take one of the other cars. It didn't have many miles on it, he reasoned, and it would let them scrap one of the prison cars for parts.

Beth and Glenn agreed, but the blonde girl insisted he was in no shape to drive. Rick smiled patiently and asked if she'd ever been behind the wheel. She explained that she had a learner's permit, but had never bothered to take the test. She sounded so earnest that Rick was helpless to rebuff her.

Glenn wanted to leave the dog, suggesting the last thing they needed was an extra mouth to feed. Rick made a clumsy comparison to Noah's Ark, saying it might be the last dog on earth, and predicted Chance would raise people's spirits. Beth agreed.

When they were loaded-up to leave, Beth gave Rick a scrutinizing glance—pained at how ragged he looked. When he started to climb into the front seat, she caught his arm.

"You should lie down," she said, gesturing to the backseat. When he hesitated, she looked down, her eyes changing, before softly adding: "I just want you to rest a little. You scared me."

Her voice was so tender, the remnants of fear so genuine, that Rick almost took her chin in his hand before he realized what he was doing. He settled for a light touch on her arm and a capitulating nod.

As Rick climbed in gingerly, trying in vain to conceal his grunts and grimaces, Beth slid out of the collared shirt draped over her tank top. When he started to lie down, she folded the shirt into a ball and slipped it under his head.

On the drive back, she stole glances at Rick whenever possible. Every time she thought he was asleep, she'd see his eyes cracked open.

"You ain't gotta stay awake," she said eventually.

"You're a student driver," Rick replied, a tiny smirk on his lips. "I fall asleep, we're breakin' the law."

If Beth had any clue how things worked between men and women, she'd have thought he was flirting. "I won't tell if you won't."

Rick grunted and closed his eyes again.

When she checked a few minutes later, it looked like he'd finally nodded off. Her heart constricted at the expression on his face. Even in sleep, it was scrunched in pain and worry.

Beth let her mind wander. She pictured Rick in her bed, resting in her arms while she rubbed his back, stroked his hair, smoothed away his worry lines. She gave him gentle kisses on his mouth, and on his head and shoulder. And then, feeling completely safe in her embrace, his breathing evened out and he peacefully slept.

As the vision lingered, Beth wondered—not for the first time—if she was the foolish little girl Maggie would paint her as if she discovered her feelings. But it didn't much matter. Love's not something you only feel when it's convenient.

Beth followed Glenn's car through the prison gates.

* * *

Hershel and Daryl came out to meet them. When they saw there were two cars, and Chance leapt out after Glenn and began to run around the yard, they exchanged a curious glance. But before they could pose a question, Beth jumped out of the other car, a worried frown on her face.

Hershel met her halfway, giving her a brief hug. "Bethy? You all right?"

She grabbed his arm, as if she intended to drag him before remembering his disability. "Rick's hurt," she said, glancing at Daryl, who took her meaning and followed her to the car. They opened the back door and helped Rick climb out. He was a little unsteady, but remained upright with their support.

Hershel took in their dirty, bloody clothes. "What happened?" he demanded.

"We ran into another camp," Glenn said vaguely, not wanting to distract Hershel from Rick's care. "He had to throw down with a couple guys."

Rick tried to shake off Beth and Daryl. The roughneck took the hint, but Beth doggedly held on, keeping an arm around Rick's waist. Hershel gave the sheriff a once-over, noting the angry red marks around his neck and the welts and cuts on his head. Rick was covered in dry blood, but he suspected much of it was other men's.

When they got him inside and laid him on one of the bunks, Hershel cleared everyone out under the guise of protecting Rick's privacy. Beth had protested, but ultimately relented under her father's stern gaze.

Wanting so badly to feel useful, she found Carl and filled him in on his father's injuries. She went to great lengths to assure him there was nothing to worry about, but it was more an exercise for herself; Carl appeared apathetic. He didn't ask any questions and looked annoyed when she lingered. Beth had sympathy for the boy's mental state, but his not caring about Rick gave her a sick feeling.

She was sullen and frustrated as she crossed through the cell block. Hoping for some solitude, she stepped outside again. The sun was almost gone now; the cool air felt good on her skin.

Beth was surprised to find Chance standing at the fence, staring (but not barking) at a walker in the distance. She set herself down on a nearby crate, then patted her knee at Chance.

The dog trotted over and basked in Beth's affections.

She rubbed its head, and though comforted by the weight of its chin in her lap, her worry for Rick remained. His injuries weren't life-threatening, but drove home a terrible truth: he could have been killed today. Rick was strong, resilient—physically and in his mind—but he was still mortal, and he tested his limits far too often.

Beth could still picture his haunted expression at the blood he'd shed today, and the weight of what she'd witnessed was settling on her as well. She knew Rick was right to do what he did, but that didn't make it any less horrifying to watch human life end.

Beth looked up at the sound of footsteps to find her sister approaching.

Maggie had a sour expression as she noted the grime on Beth's clothes. But as she came and sat beside her, she quickly put a smile on.

"Hey," Maggie said gently, rubbing her back. "How you doin'?"

"I'm fine."

"Glenn told me what happened. Said you kept your head." When Beth didn't respond, she continued: "I'm sorry I wasn't there—that you had to go through that. Rick shouldn't have put you in that position."

Beth's mouth pinched down at the corners. "Pretty soon, ya'll are gonna start blamin' Rick when it rains," she snapped. "What was he supposed to do—just leave all them guns?"

"Beth, you could've been—"

"He told me to stay in the car. It ain't his fault I got gumption." She shook her head, exasperated. "And in case you didn't notice, he's the only one that got hurt. Just like he always does—protectin' us."

Maggie blinked, carefully neutral . She'd suspected for a while now that her sister was nursing a crush, but that hadn't prepared her for the force of Beth's response. Maggie looked at her for a long moment, as Beth averted her eyes again.

She reached out tentatively and stroked Beth's hair, playing with the ends. She gave her a patient smile and said, "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to upset you. It just scared me—you being out there like that."

Beth rubbed her face, letting out a tiny sigh. She lifted her eyes from Chance and smiled weakly. "It's all right."

* * *

Hershel was about to dress the wound on his chest when Rick stopped him.

"I wanna take a shower first," Rick said in a gravelly voice. "Feel like I went swimmin' in a landfill."

The old man nodded, knowing it wasn't worth arguing. He set the gauze aside and cast his eyes down. He tucked the ends of his beard under his chin with a serene expression.

"Rick," he said after a time, "I've told you before, I trust you with my life. And with my daughters' lives. I meant it." He met Rick's gaze with intensity. "I know how vulnerable we were not having those guns. But Beth and Maggie—they're my world. And Beth wasn't made to fight."

"She's capable," Rick argued weakly.

"Maybe one day. But not this one."

Rick looked away, and in his head he saw Beth plunging her knife into the Scar-Faced Man. And he saw her look of terror when the man stood over her.

"I trust you with her life," Hershel said again. "And if you tell me this had to happen today, I'll believe you. But I need to hear it, Rick."

A cold feeling worked its way through the sheriff's belly. In his head, he saw his savage work with the shotgun and the Scar-Faced Man choking him and Beth's soft lips.

He slowly met Hershel's eyes. "It's like I said," Rick murmured. "Didn't have a choice."

* * *

As the water sprayed over him, Rick racked his brain for anything he'd forgotten. Daryl and Glenn had returned the guns to the armory and were reinforcing the door. From now on, there'd be two people on guard—one inside and one on the perimeter—and they'd be experienced shooters. Hershel had given Chance a once-over (seeming happy to ply his _real_ trade), and Rick visited Carl and Judith (though his son was aloof as ever).

It wasn't long before his thoughts drifted to Beth. Evidently she'd been looking for him, but they hadn't crossed paths. He wasn't sure what he'd say if they did. He couldn't erase the guilt he felt about what she'd had to witness. And he couldn't shake how uncomfortable she'd made him feel.

No, he thought. That wasn't it. What made him uncomfortable was that she _hadn't_ made him uncomfortable. All her fussing and touching—it should have disturbed him. But even now as he closed his eyes, he could feel her hand on his face.

For Christ's sake, she was—what—seventeen, eighteen?

Rick shook loose the thought of her. He focused on various concerns, considering in no particular order: whether he should lift some of the restrictions on the Woodbury group's movements; if it was better to give Carl space or force the issue; what he'd do if Georgia ran out formula; and whether the prison was a viable home in the long-term.

Then he thought about the men he killed, and how grime on the soul doesn't wash off.

* * *

Beth sat with her legs dangling through the railing over the edge of the balcony. Chance lay asleep on her side a couple feet away.

Everything was beautiful in starlight—even the prison. The concrete softened; sharp corners became round. Even the groan of walkers seemed to recede, as the night gave voice to the living. Cicadas traded music for the shrill barks of owls, and in some distant wood, a wolf called out protection for its pups.

She was smiling to herself when she heard footfalls behind her. Beth craned her head, and her smile softened at the sight of Rick wearing clean clothes. His hair was a little wet still.

"Hey," he said quietly.

Beth thought to stand, but stopped as he moved to join her. She willed her breathing to stay even as he sat down, careful not to touch her.

"Hey." When he only looked off into the distance, Beth lay her hand on his cheek, turning his head to inspect his injuries. He averted his eyes as her fingers drifted up, skimming over a nasty welt and causing him to wince. She gave him a caress in apology before lowering her hand. "You should be in bed. Didn't daddy tell you to rest?"

Rick stared down at the yard, not trusting himself to look in her eyes. "I wanted to see how you were doing first."

"I'm just fine," she said brightly. "You don't have to worry about me. You're the one who's had a time of it."

"Not every wound shows on your skin." He finally met her eyes, and she saw the burden there; they were a cauldron of guilt. "I'm sorry you had to see me—" He shook his head sadly. "I'm just sorry."

Beth leaned in, making sure he had nowhere to look but at her. "I ain't afraid of you, Rick," she said. "I got no doubts about your heart."

The words struck into his pain like a rock into water. But he couldn't shake the guilt. "Your family—you're all Christians?"

"Daddy is. It comes and goes with me and Maggie."

"I wonder, if we're to be held to account, what I might tell God on the day of my judgment."

"You tell him he'd best explain himself first," she said fiercely, "before he goes judging what he's given you to live with."

Rick wrinkled his forehead. He smiled slightly. He followed Beth's eyes as they turned to the stars. There was a wonder she had for things, which before he'd dismissed as youth, but now recognized as spirit.

"It's funny," he said, "how you forget all that stuff—the stars and the dark—it's all still up there."

Beth nodded wistfully. "There ain't anything more beautiful than starlight," she said. Rick found himself raking his eyes over her, memorizing the subtle way her face changed with different feelings.

"You know, we're all made from stars," Beth said.

"That right?" he asked indulgently.

"Yeah. And one day, we'll be the dust that makes new ones." She smiled blithely. "So in a way, we can't really die, 'cause starlight goes on forever."

Rick's gaze flicked down from her eyes to her mouth, and then the curve of her neck. Something stirred in his chest. He willed his hand not to move.

When Beth glanced over, he looked away. But a hint of his thinking remained on his face. She leaned in impulsively and kissed him on the cheek.

"What was that for?"

"For bringin' the dog back," she lied.

"Right. Well… she seems like a good girl."

Beth looked at him for a long moment, and gave the appearance of leaning forward. Rick took a ragged breath and wiped his eyes. "I—uh… I should prob'ly head in." He stood up a bit awkwardly. "Been a long day, I guess."

She nodded, and with a small note of concern, said: "Try to get some sleep—some _real_ sleep."

Rick smiled tightly, holding her eyes briefly before he walked inside.

When he was gone, Beth cursed herself. She was almost certain she'd driven him off. But she was so sure that she'd seen a flash of—something—on his face.

Beth glanced at Chance, resting peacefully, and then, with a kind of dreamy expression, she turned her eyes back to the stars, breathing the night air deeply, like it were less poisoned than that of day, and in a voice that was more feeling than form, she began to sing.

_In the still of the night, in the world's ancient light  
where wisdom grows up in strife  
My bewildered brain toils in vain  
through the darkness on the pathways of life  
Each invisible prayer is like a cloud in the air  
Tomorrow keeps turning around  
We live and we die, we know not why  
But I'll be with you when the deal goes down_

_The moon gives light and shines by night  
I scarcely feel the glow  
We learn to live, and then we forgive  
o'er the road we're bound to go  
More frail than the flowers, these precious hours  
that keep us so tightly bound  
You come to my eyes like a vision from the skies  
And I'll be with you when the deal goes down_

_I picked up a rose and it poked through my clothes_  
_I followed the winding stream_  
_I heard the deafening noise, I felt transient joys_  
_I know they're not what they seem_  
_In this earthly domain, full of disappointment and pain_  
_you'll never see me frown_  
_I owe my heart to you, I'd not say it if it weren't true_  
_And I'll be with you when the deal goes down_

Inside, Rick leaned against the door to the balcony, eyes closed, and sighed.

* * *

**A/N:** I think this makes sense as an ending for the story, but I have an idea for extending it that feels very organic and that I think could be good. So, there's a chance this could continue.

Let me know what you think, and thanks so much!


	4. And By the Prophet

**A/N:** Salutations. Once again, great thanks to those who took the time after reading to leave feedback on the last chapter. It's so very much appreciated.

I've decided to continue the story, and have a very clear idea of where it's going. We begin to pick up the main thread that will carry us through in this chapter. As always, please leave a review and let me know what you think. Much appreciated, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Beth had been worried he'd withdraw from her—from everyone, for that matter—but over the next few days, he was very engaged when their paths crossed (and she made sure they did). He looked a little haggard on account of missed sleep and too many guard shifts, but she didn't dwell on his state, letting him think he'd concealed it.

She tried not to touch him, because he'd given the appearance of being uncomfortable before, but she couldn't stop herself, and each time he seemed less and less bothered by it.

Beth asked a lot of questions about knives, guns, and being a sheriff. Then she'd wistfully bemoan her lack of skill, wishing she'd actually been trained to use a gun instead of just firing wildly when the moment called for it. Beth was grateful when he took the hint and offered to teach her.

The next day, she paced her cell anxiously. It reminded her of how nervous she'd been before her first date with Jimmy—multiplied by fifty.

Just outside the gate on the far side of the prison, Rick had set up some empty glass bottles on a wooden board held up by two tree branches. Beth brimmed with anticipation as Rick reached into his satchel for her practice gun.

Her lips turned down a moment later. She was only half-joking when she asked: "Can't I use your gun?"

Rick smiled affectionately. "How 'bout we start out small and work our way there?" He held it up for her to see. "This is a Walther 22. Recoil's pretty light, so you should be able to handle it…"

He explained all the pistol's components and best practices for its safe operation. Throughout the demonstration, her eyes were narrowed seriously, gobbling up his knowledge. He tried not to find it cute.

When he was sure she understood how it worked, and heartened that she could recite his safety tips back to him, Rick gently placed the gun in her hands. She turned it over in her palm with a look of wonder, finding it heavier, but less intimidating than she'd imagined.

Beth looked to Rick for instruction.

"All right. Now, you want to grip firmly, and as high up on the handle as you can out of the path of the slide," he explained. When she drifted too high, Rick placed his hands over hers and guided it down an inch. Beth's breath hitched slightly at the feel of his rough palms. "There you go. That's better."

He loosely gripped her arms to turn her toward the target. "Okay. You want your stance to be about shoulder-width apart." She looked down at her feet, adjusting until she was standing exactly as he suggested. "Good—that's perfect."

Beth's stomach flipped at all his positive reinforcement.

"Now, you gotta line your sights up," Rick said. "You see that little bracket in the back?" Beth nodded. "You wanna make sure you've got a direct line from your eye, through that bracket, and up through the sight post in the front."

Beth squinted, a determined look on her face as she inched the gun up until she had a perfect line of sight to one of the bottles. "Like this?"

"Mm-hmm. Just like that. Now take a deep breath."

She complied, sucking in slowly.

"Don't pull," Rick said. "Just squeeze—real slow. Let the gun do the work."

Beth stared through the sights at her target, wanting more than anything to impress him. Maybe he'd think of her as more than a teenager he had to protect if she could show him how quick she learned, and that she could step up and be of use. Don't pull, she repeated in her mind. Squeeze.

The gun jerked up as she fired and her shot missed by at least five feet.

"Oh, Lord," Beth mumbled, blushing as she lowered the gun and looked down at her boots. She didn't want to see the disappointment on his face. Even Carl, barely into puberty, could handle a gun.

Rick saw her distress. "Hey, come on," he said, touching her back. "It's your first shot, Beth. It just kicked back on you a little there. That's natural."

"Really?" she asked hopefully.

"Hell, I've seen people drop the damn thing—just about blow their foot off. Your form was good; you just pulled instead of squeezing. We can fix that."

Her eyes brightened immediately. She smiled hopefully and eased back into her stance. Her hands were still a little numb from the first shot, though, and she had trouble lining up the sights.

Rick watched her grip tremble. Without thinking, he slid up behind her, his hands gliding along her arms until they came to rest over both of hers on the gun. Beth's stomach tumbled at the feel of his chest pressed against her back. She'd imagined for months what it might be like, but nothing could prepare her for the moment.

When he realized what he was doing, Rick's mind shouted at him to step away, but he kept his posture and couldn't help the pathetic thoughts that followed: how soft and delicate her hands were beneath his own, how good her hair smelled, how well her body fit his.

"Just relax," he said softly, his mouth skimming Beth's ear. "Deep breath—squeeze, don't pull."

His gentle voice broke down her nervousness. Her surprise was gone, and all she could think was how right it felt having him flush against her. His voice and hands were steady. She felt like she could do anything.

Beth lined up her sights, breathed deeply, and squeezed the trigger.

The bottle exploded, scattering glass across the ground.

Beth's eyes widened and she giggled excitedly as Rick released her. "Did you see that?!"

He couldn't help the wide smile that formed as she bounced on her heels. In a world of death and rust, Beth Greene was life. He watched her appreciatively.

"Hell of a shot," Rick said. "Think you can do that again?"

Her confidence soaring, Beth nodded and turned back toward the bottles. And for the rest of the afternoon, it wasn't nervousness her deep breaths quelled; it was excitement. With Rick at Beth's side—gently teaching , correcting, and supporting her—there was no need to be afraid.

* * *

They'd had success in the past in Talking Rock, twice raiding the little town's stores without exhausting its supplies. But Maggie's enthusiasm was dampened by her memory that the streets were full of walkers.

As they rolled into town, Glenn was the first to notice the change since their last trip. "Am I the only one who remembers this place a little differently?"

"No, it's weird," Maggie said. "Haven't seen a walker since we got off the highway."

"They're prob'ly all in some corner eatin' the same corpse," Daryl said.

Glenn nodded, but in his mind, he was remembering Clayton. He'd spent most of his time thinking about the shootout, and it only now dawned on him how strange it was that there'd been no walkers.

"Somethin' wrong?" Maggie asked.

"No. Just thinking," Glenn said.

* * *

Everything was cleaned out—bandages, cold medicine, junk food. There were just empty shelves and cheap sunglasses.

"What the fuck is this?" Daryl grumbled, raking his eyes over the stripped-down aisles. He leaned down to examine a pile of boxes, finding them all empty. This wasn't the gold mine he remembered. "Glenn, go check the back."

While Daryl and Maggie moved up and down the empty aisles, Glenn climbed over the pharmacy counter and combed through what was left of the prescription drugs.

After a few minutes, Maggie called out: "You find anything?"

"Antibiotics and pain meds are all gone," Glenn said. "Couple inhalers and some blood thinners, but not much else."

Daryl sighed, balancing his crossbow on his shoulder. "All right. Bag 'em up. Rick's turned that place into a nursing home; I'm sure somebody could use 'em."

As Glenn gathered what he could, Maggie eyed at the bare shelves. "Wonder who came through here," she said with a distant expression, trying to picture the other group scavenging. "Wonder what kinda people they are—what they're goin' through."

Daryl spit on the floor and said nonchalantly, "They got Oxy and Doritos—they're fine."

Maggie rolled her eyes. When Glenn climbed back over the counter and joined them, she asked: "So what's our move? You wanna try somewhere else?"

"Still plenty of daylight," Daryl said. "We can try Mableton."

Glenn nodded. "Don't think we've been there. It's bigger too. They should have more than one pharmacy."

They traded shade for the scorching sun, heading back outside to the car.

Daryl opened the back door and tossed his crossbow on the seat, as Maggie made her way to the other side. They were about to climb in when they saw Glenn hadn't moved. He stood frozen with his back to them.

Maggie frowned. "Glenn? You comin'?"

"Um…" He gave a long pause before looking back. "You guys should probably come see this."

They hadn't noticed it on their way in, but now, a grizzly image filled their eyes from just down the block. On the flagpole in front of the visitor's center, the American flag had been replaced with a canvass banner and a mutilated walker corpse. Penned in blood on the banner were the words: "Believe in Mighty God."

Glenn and Maggie exchanged an uneasy look, but Daryl appeared unperturbed.

"Surprised we ain't seen this sooner. People get scared, they show blood to JC," Daryl said.

"There's nobody here. What's the point in stringing that up if they weren't gonna stay?" Glenn asked.

"You ever seen a dog kick grass on its piss?" Daryl replied with a smirk. "Just some nut job got too much time. Let's get movin'."

* * *

"You really think I was good?"

It was at least the third time she'd asked, and despite previous assurances, she seemed genuinely uncertain. Rick smiled as he stripped down the gun, Beth perched insouciantly on the adjacent table.

"You were great," he said. "Hell of a lot better than when Shane tried to teach you."

As soon as it left his mouth, he regretted the reference. But Beth helpfully ignored the weight of the man's name. "He wasn't a very good teacher," she said dismissively. "Maybe with other cops, but he—he wasn't so nice to me. You're a lot more patient. You make everything easy."

"That's kind of you. Sometimes I think I'm wearin' thin on people."

Beth wrinkled her nose. "Some folks don't remember how lucky they got it."

"I don't know about 'lucky,'" Rick said, as he wiped the slide down with a cloth.

"Compared to what's out there? We got thick walls and high fences—and we're growin' crops. Comfy pillows and decent beds. Heck, we got a dog to play to fetch with. How's crazy's that? Dead people walkin' around outside and you found us a dog."

Rick looked away shyly. "You make it sound like it's all me."

"Because it is," Beth said. "We're a family, and everyone does their part, but none of it works without you. Without you, all this goes away." Rick focused intently on the gun, wiping down the receiver. Beth slid off the table and took the parts out of his hands and set them aside. Despite how close she was, he couldn't help but face her. Beth's tender eyes tunneled into him. "No one thanks you. Not even for the big things. And I wish they would so you didn't have cause to wonder. But I see everything you do, and I'm so grateful for it."

Rick held her gaze, entranced. She saw all the vulnerability he suppressed for others' good. He lifted his hand slowly, as if he were about to cup her face. She tilted her head back and stared up at him.

Lori flashed through Rick's mind like a bolt of lightning, and he dropped his hand and abruptly turned away.

Beth's heart sank. She'd felt so close to something, but his wall was reerected now. She knew he was close to shutting down.

With deliberate nonchalance, she picked up the pistol receiver and asked cheerfully: "Do I need to learn how to clean this? Seems kinda complicated."

She felt a sense of relief when, after a moment of silence, Rick smiled slightly and handed her the cloth.

* * *

Everyone noticed the lack of walkers when they got off the highway. Just like the last town. There was an eerieness about their absence to which none of the group gave voice. But the biggest shock was still to come.

As they rolled into downtown Mableton, they found its streets bustling with life. It had the appearance of a market, with pedestrians moving freely among vendors, who offered fruit and clothes and even non-essential items like jewelry. Everyone seemed confident in their own safety.

There were no artificial walls like in Woodbury—nothing to keep out walkers or discourage bandits.

"Did I miss something?" Daryl quipped. "I thought the damn world ended. Who the hell these people playin' shop?"

The townspeople took notice of the car. A gentle murmur moved through the crowd. They seemed more curious than alarmed, though.

The car rolled to a stop. Daryl watched the townspeople move to either side of the street, as a woman in her mid-forties walked serenely toward the car. A soft-eyed Indian, with coarse black hair tied up in the back, a torso that was too long for her legs, and light scars running down one side of her face, her manner was placid and confident. She wore a sundress that was decidedly impractical in the new world.

The group exchanged a glance and, after moment's hesitation, nodded an agreement. They stepped out of the car to meet her.

"Hello," she said pleasantly, squinting slightly to hold the sun off. "Welcome."

Maggie smiled politely. "Hi. We, um—" She paused, briefly distracted by the townspeople's stares. "We didn't think there'd be anyone here."

"You're scavengers?"

"We're lookin' for supplies for our people," Maggie said. She let her amazement show at what the market had to offer. "Seems like you all don't need to scavenge. How did you…?"

The woman's voice was as halcyon as the setting. "We've been blessed by God—and by the Prophet. Things have been peaceful since the exorcism."

"Exorcism?"

"Of the possessed."

"Are you talkin' about walkers?"

"If that's your name for those reborn in evil," the woman said. "A terrible thing—the hunger of demons."

"The, uh—the possessed: how'd you clear them out?" Glenn asked.

The woman seemed surprised by the question; her tranquility briefly faltered. She studied them closely for some sign of deception, but finding none, smiled warmly. "You've not yet met the Prophet. You haven't heard the New Word."

Glenn opened his mouth, but she quickly spoke over him: "You all must be hungry. Come." She gently gestured for them to follow. "We have plenty of food—and much to discuss."

Daryl's eyes were cold and skeptical. He gave the woman and the townspeople a once-over, then glanced at Glenn and Maggie to confirm their guns were on them. He had his buck knife, but the crossbow was in the car.

After a long moment, he nodded warily.


	5. But That's What We Pretended

**A/N:** Salutations. RL has prevented me from writing (or reading the other great stories on here), but I'm happy to finally update this story, which I'm still enjoying working on.

I'm a little unsure about some of this chapter (one character moment in particular), but I hope you all enjoy! The songs featured are The McCoys' "Hang on Sloopy" and Bonnie Prince Billy's "Love Comes to Me."

* * *

Both the churches in town had burned down in the early days of the plague. No one knew how—maybe looters or just a knocked-over candle—but whatever the method, it left Mableton without a soul. It was as if Jesus lay in the rubble unresurrected.

But over the past several months, the town had begun to heal, the woman said. They'd knocked down the walls between a barber shop and a toy store and built a new church. Mableton Middle School now functioned as City Hall, housing offices for the town leaders, and the adjacent office building served as a hospital, overseen by a retired PA.

Glenn was overwhelmed by the community's scope and organization. Even Woodbury paled in comparison. But what stood out most was the lack of walls around the town perimeter. There was nothing to keep the world out. And yet no one lived in fear.

The school cafeteria had the look of a formal dining room. The white walls were repainted rustic brown, and the children's tables were replaced with oak sets from the furniture store. An ornate chandelier hung bombastically from the ceiling.

The woman sat opposite her three guests at the main table. A teenaged boy set two bowls of fruit before them, then left without comment.

Maggie's eyes seemed to glaze at the sight of fresh oranges.

"They're very good," the woman said.

Maggie reached for the bowl, but stopped halfway when Daryl glared at her.

Glenn's eyes slowly scanned the room. He shook his head in awe. "How'd you do all this? There's electricity in here."

"Diesel generators. About twelve of them in all."

"You keep them on 24/7?"

"What our people need, they are provided," the woman said tightly, annoyed by the line of questioning. "We are well cared for."

"By the 'Prophet?'" Maggie asked.

"All you see before you, he and the Lord have made possible."

Daryl had no patience for vagueness, but he kept his mouth shut and left things to Maggie, who remained carefully neutral.

"You said he exorcised the demons," Maggie continued. "How did he do that?"

"His methods were of the earth—the same we've all employed. But unlike others, the Lord worked through him. He enjoys divine shielding."

"Divine shielding?"

A kind of delirious smile spread across her face. "The possessed—the _walkers_, as you call them—cannot bring him harm. Their teeth, their claws cannot penetrate his faith."

Daryl scowled and sat up straight. "Hold on a second, lady. You tryin' to tell me this Prophet is _immune_?" He shook his head. "How the hell you know that?"

"I've seen it with my own eyes."

"You've—you've seen him get bit? By a walker?" Glenn asked.

"No one believed him when he spoke of God's protection, so he offered a demonstration. I watched it sink its teeth deep into his flesh," she said, making it sound like a happy memory. "And then we waited. Minutes became hours, and hours days, but the evil did not claim him. And as the next weeks passed, the skin and muscle healed, so that his only burden was the scarring."

Maggie turned her head slowly and caught Glenn's eye. Somewhere beneath the distrust and skepticism, another notion shone through.

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit."

* * *

His footsteps felt lighter somehow today. It was like he'd been carrying a satchel full of bricks, and a few had been removed.

He couldn't deny that teaching Beth to shoot had been genuinely fun. It had been a long time since he'd had cause to smile. There was a jubilation in her that swallowed everything in sight. He'd fought it for a while now, but his resolve was ever weakening.

He was crossing through the cell block in the direction of the laundry room when a voice called out.

"Rick!"

The sheriff turned to find Ben, one of the Woodbury residents, jogging to catch up.

Ben was a tough, haggard man who wore every moment of his fifty-three years. His hair was more black than gray, but his dim eyes and deep crevices made him look old and tired. He spoke in a polite voice thick with subtext.

"Somethin' I can do for you, Ben?"

"I just talked to your boy. He told me you won't let anyone outside the gate. That true?"

Rick nodded patiently. "I think it's best. There's no need to go huntin'—got plenty of food for now—and there's been more walkers than usual."

"I understand your concern," Ben replied, "but you have to understand, people are going stir-crazy."

"Still plenty of fresh air to be had in the yard."

He hadn't meant it to be glib, but it seemed to agitate Ben. "Rick, it's hard enough living in a prison without _being_ a prisoner."

Rick wrinkled his forehead. "I get your meaning," he said a little bleakly. "My first responsibility's to keep you all safe, and I can't make any promises, but I'll think about it, okay? We'll have the conversation."

Ben smiled slightly, though it failed to reach his eyes. "That's all I can ask. Thank you, Rick."

The sheriff gave him a nod and continued on his way.

* * *

Jimmy could be cocky, but was also very nice. During their three months together, she probably cried in his arms six or eight times. Her father once claimed that women are lucky, that crying—like sweating—was healthy, and that it was a crime few men could do it.

She hadn't cried in a while. It wasn't that things were perfect—that she'd forgotten the way the world was . But none of their people had died of late, and conflict among the group was relatively low. Moreover, Rick's increasing attention had her spirits soaring.

Beth couldn't help but smile to herself as she folded laundry. She fell into a rhythm, and before she knew it, she was tapping her foot to the beat of an old song. It reminded her of Rick, and as she daydreamed about him, the words spilled from her mouth.

_Sloopy lives in a very bad part of town  
And everybody—yeah—tries to put my Sloopy down  
Well, Sloopy, I don't care what your daddy do  
_'_cause you know Sloopy, girl, I'm in love with you  
And so I sing out—_

A voice behind her continued_: "Hang on, Sloopy—Sloopy, hang on. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…"_

Beth leapt out of her skin, spinning around, but felt immediate relief at the sight of Rick Grimes. And at the realization that he was singing, a big grin formed. Her eyes danced.

"Hey. Sorry, I just—just sing to myself sometimes."

"Ain't no cause to be sorry," Rick said, giving her a muted smile. "Don't think I realized before how good you sound. You could've done something with it if…"

He trailed off, but the reminder of the old world didn't dampen her enthusiasm. With a slight blush, she said: "Helps me pass the time now. Gives me somethin' to hold onto."

"Well, you picked a good song."

"I used to listen to it with my friends when I was a kid," she explained, "on one of mom's old 45s. And we'd pretend we were at a baseball game and it was the seventh inning stretch. " She smiled strangely. "Don't know why. I mean, we were playin' make-believe—could've put ourselves anywhere, but that's what we pretended."

She realized she was babbling and looked down.

"I'm sure it was quite a sight," he said.

Beth reached for a garment, self-consciously folding it. She tried to sound casual when she asked: "Did you need somethin' from me? Is Judith—"

"Carol's watching her—she's fine," Rick assured her. He reached up and rubbed his neck. "I guess I just wanted to see you."

Beth's stomach fluttered. "It's pretty quiet today. Are you taking it easy?"

"I got watch in a little bit. And I guess our friends from Woodbury are getting restless. Not that I know what to do about that."

"What're they on about?"

"They say – "

A woman's scream pierced their quiet moment, seeming to bounce off the walls and hit them from all sides. It was the kind of deep, gutteral sound only a walker could inspire.

Beth's eyes went wide, locking with Rick's, before the sheriff's face hardened and he sprinted from the room.

* * *

"Help! **Help**! Please, **help**!"

Rick threw the door open and burst into the yard, a small crowd behind him.

On the other side of the fence, one of the Woodbury kids, no older than ten, was surrounded by walkers. They had him flanked on all sides; his back was pressed against the chain-link.

"Mark! **Mark**!" His mother rushed toward him, but Rick caught her and shoved her into Carol's arms.

"Hold her!"

Rick ran to the fence, but realized the boy was right in front of the gate. He couldn't open it.

"Help me, help me, help me!"

Rick's eyes darted about, until they fell at last on a part of the fence mended with cables. He sprinted over, fumbling with the latch before finally uncoiling the cables. Beth watched nervously as he pushed through the opening into the dangers outside.

The lead walker unhinged its jaw and went for Mark's neck. The boy scrambled, shoving against its chest as it snapped its mouth and missed by inches.

It sprang again, but was denied its meal when a bullet ripped through its temple and knocked it on its side. The others turned toward the gunfire. Four stumbled toward Rick, while another stayed with Mark. The boy had room to escape, but remained frozen with fear.

"Run!" Rick shouted. "Go on—run!"

Still, the boy didn't move. And Rick didn't have a line of sight through the other walkers.

He took aim at two coming toward him and hit a pair of headshots. That gave him the space he needed. But as he squeezed the trigger, there was only a click. The gun was empty.

"Oh, shit—no!"

The walker grabbed Mark's shoulders and went for his throat.

Beth ran to the fence and thrust a switchblade through a hole into the walker's eye. It growled and staggered before falling to the ground. She turned quickly to Rick's predicament, but they were already upon him.

Rick unsheathed his machete and jumped to one side, slicing the near walker's head in half—just below its eyes, so that the skull and brains and skin spun off like a medicine cap. That left him behind the other walker, and he plunged the blade down the middle of its skull.

Rick braced his foot on its back to yank his weapon loose.

"Mark!"

He whirled around to find the fallen walker (Beth's knife in its eye) crawling toward Mark. Its bony fingers clawed for his leg.

Rick kicked away its hand, then slammed his boot into its face. It fell on its back, helpless, and gave one final growl before Rick crushed its head.

Rick turned to the boy, who was wailing uncontrollably, as Beth quickly unlocked the gate. He crouched down beside Mark as if to comfort him, while covertly confirming that he hadn't been bitten.

When the gate opened, Mark's mother pushed Rick away and took her son into her arms. He was too big to be held, but she picked him up anyway, staggering inside as the both of them sobbed.

It struck Rick that without context, relief sounds much like grief.

Carol pulled the gate closed, while Beth approached unabashedly and squeezed Rick against her. He was taken aback at first, and his arms hung at his sides. But slowly, as the moment faded and he breathed in her scent, Rick's arms closed around her. She didn't care about the walker blood on him, or how his grip began to hurt.

When they finally pulled back, Rick glanced to his right to find Karen's son, Noah, staring at him in awe. The teenager's eyes tracked down to Rick's machete, then raked over the slaughtered walkers.

Noah shook his head. "You are such a badass."

* * *

It was a strange sign of trust to let them walk the streets alone. No one in town was the least bit perturbed. Fear, it seemed, had been dispatched as one would excise an odor.

As they crossed through the town in a pattern, silently marveling at its likeness to civilization, Glenn scrutinized the woman's story. Its events were surreal, but the unyielding earnestness with which she relayed them was gnawing at his skepticism.

There were a lot of missing pieces. He wasn't sure whether she was withholding details or simply didn't know. She shared nothing about the Prophet's life that predated her meeting him. Instead, she focused on his "work for the Lord." The Prophet traveled with disciples to spread the New Word, a post-plague gospel God whispered in his ear.

His mission, the woman said, was to revive the human race through both creation and destruction. Already, he'd restored a second town the way he had this one. But rebuilding wasn't enough, because so as long as evil lurks, good work will be destroyed. Everywhere he went, the Prophet disposed of the possessed and delivered justice to men of ill intent.

The woman had asked pointed questions about Glenn and his group—where were they living; how many of them were there; would they be interested in trade relations? They'd answered none of those queries, except to say that their group was large and that her request to discuss trade would be passed on to Rick (though everyone knew they had nothing worth bartering).

"This is weird," Glenn said. "It's like – " He glanced over to where Maggie should have been, before finding her over his shoulder. She'd stopped in front of a flower shop. He smiled sadly at the look on her face and joined her.

Maggie peered through the window at all the brilliant colors. The daylilys seemed to strain forward, as if reaching out to her, and they were flanked on each side by hyacinths and old-fashioned bleeding hearts.

There was a girlish light in her eyes that belonged more to Beth.

"You believe that?" she murmured.

"They're pretty," he said.

"When's the last time you saw flowers?"

"Not in a while, I guess. Or if I have, I didn't notice."

Maggie glanced down and nodded. Glenn looked ahead to find an impatient Daryl waiting. There was a quip Glenn didn't care to hear bubbling up in the man.

He touched Maggie's shoulder. "Come on," he said.

* * *

They toured the general store, which was more of an oddity shop, and an old lawyer's office that had been turned into a clothing outlet. Daryl was surprised to realize how many things he didn't miss from the old world. Walkers aside, he almost preferred life at the prison.

As they walked back to the car, Daryl asked: "You believe any of that shit she said about this 'Prophet' being immune?"

"I donno," Glenn said. "But whether it's true or not, I think _she_ believes it."

"I'm more interested in how he's wipin' out walkers," Maggie said. "How is that possible? Even the army couldn't do it."

Daryl shrugged. "Army didn't know what the fuck they were doing. When shit went down, they tried to meet it head-on. But you got a safe place to plan from, and enough firepower, maybe you got a chance."

When they were close to the car, two people approached from a nearby alley—a man and a young girl. The man, in his early thirties, had windswept hair and symmetrical green eyes that anchored a long face. His three day-old stubble hinted more at laziness than an attempted beard, and a deep line between his eyebrows was too pronounced for someone so young

The girl looked fourteen. She had a soft, feckled face and long hair tied back in a ponytail. She was fidgety and nervous, but there was a toughness about her, a kind of determination that shone through in her eyes. The man was calm and confident, while she glanced about to ensure no one was watching.

The group received them warily.

"You the tourists?" the man asked, smiling charmingly.

Daryl looked him up and down, strangely annoyed at how clean he was. "What's it to you, college boy?"

"I have some information."

"What kind of information?" Glenn demanded.

The man glanced past them to make sure no one was in earshot, but lowered his voice anyway. "Things here aren't exactly what they seem."

"Yeah, no shit," Daryl quipped. "Ya'll are fuckin' nuts."

The girl stood up to her full height. "Hey, asshole: we're trying to help you here. So why don't you shut up and – "

The man smiled affectionately and took her by the shoulders. "Okay, okay—calm down, kiddo," he said, gently pulling her back. "It's all right."

She relented, but focused a glare on Daryl, who smirked back at her. When the man spoke again, it was directed at Glenn and Maggie.

"This Prophet… I'm sure they told you a lot of things, but at least one of them's true: he _is_ immune. I saw that roamer bite him—took a chunk out of him. And he's healthy now as the day he was born."

"Who is he?" Maggie asked. "Where did he come from?"

"I don't know much myself. But I can tell you he's not from here—he's not an American. Either he just happened to be here when the world went to shit, or he's come here since."

"And the walkers?" Glenn interjected. "How's he clearing them out?"

The man and the girl exchanged a glance. Her eyes were imploring, the skin on her face pulled tight with worry.

After a pause, the man said: "It may be better if we talk about this someplace else."

"_Hell_ no," Daryl snapped. "You think you're comin' home with us?"

"Look, if your camp's within a hundred miles of Atlanta, then I've got some things you need to know. But the fact that I'm even talking to you means Gracie and I aren't safe here." He glanced over Daryl's shoulder to find some townspeople watching. "So the way I figure it, it'll be a lot better for all of us if we leave this place together."

Daryl looked to his friends, frowning at their indecision. "Don't tell me you're considering this. We got no idea who these people are."

"We're your best shot at not being totally _fucked_," the girl piped up.

Glenn dipped his head and scrubbed his face with both palms. Trust was a lot to ask, but if there was an alternative, he couldn't see it. If this 'Prophet' had the means to take out hundreds (maybe thousands) of walkers, the threat he posed was much graver than the Governor's.

The man gazed at them placidly. "We're just asking for a chance. If you won't do it for us, do it for yourselves."

Daryl sighed.

* * *

"You were supposed to be keeping watch. Where were you?"

Carl rolled his eyes, utterly disinterested in his father's contempt. He simultaneously shrugged his shoulders and puffed his chest out. "I was hungry."

"I don't care if you were _hungry_!" Rick thundered. "When you're up in that tower, it's your job to keep this group safe." He paced the cell angrily. "All this talk about not being a kid—about getting the respect you deserve? Grown-ups do their _job_, Carl! Grown-ups have responsibilities—and they're not always fun. You think you're an adult 'cause you know how to shoot a gun? You don't have a clue, do you?"

His son burned with disdain. "Don't talk to me about keeping the group safe. That kid isn't part of our group. None of those Woodbury people are part of 'our group.' You're the one who put us all at risk by even bringing them here."

Carl's tirade struck Rick like a punch in the gut. Rick had hoped that taking in the Governor's refugees would remind Carl of what mattered about being human. But the boy before him was unmoved by emotion.

"If you believe that, then I've failed you," he said quietly.

Carl regarded his father with cold eyes that were rimmed red and black. They seemed to Rick to be a prison of hate and ruin. Carl stared at him, conceding nothing just to show that he could, and when the point was proven, he stood up and left.

Rick looked at the spot where his son had been sitting. Then he shut his eyes and lay his head against the wall.

Outside in the cell block, Beth sat on the stairs and waited for her sister to return. Most of the group, including the Woodbury contingent, were gathered there too. Supply runs had taken on a "Christmas morning" feeling. The air today was sour, though.

Beth looked at her father, who sat on a wooden chair peering pensively out the window. Mark leaned back in his mother's arms, looking almost catatonic. Beth couldn't see Rick, but had watched Carl storm out and feared for his mood.

On their own, these were small things, but in sum, they required a response. And there was only one thing Beth could think to do.

She sung softly:

_When the numbers get so high  
of the dead flying through the sky  
Oh, I don't know why  
Love comes to me  
Love comes to me_

_When your mouth is laying ope_  
_Head knocked back, and you don't cope_  
_You're out of reach of flowers and soap_  
_Love comes to me_  
_Love comes to me_

_Love comes to me  
Love comes and all  
It's my hands, my heart, my lips  
And that is all_

_When the fever hits your forehead  
Intrusive mice chew up your bed  
And you call on God, and God is dead  
Love comes to you  
Love comes to you_

_Oh, sugar won't you be my only  
I'm a hard-hearted honey-pot hungry shepherd  
And I'm longing to be born for you, that's her_

_Love comes to you  
Love comes and all  
It's your hands, your heart, your lips  
And that is all_

_In the night time when you feel me  
And the backs of your knees conceal me  
And you're eyeballin' the unreal me  
Love comes to me  
Love comes to me_


	6. Though People Think

**A/N:** Greetings again! Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to leave feedback. I really appreciate when folks do. It's the thing that inspires one to keep going—knowing people are following and getting something out of it.

I hope you enjoy this installment!

* * *

The dissatisfaction rolled off everyone in waves. "That's all you got?" one asked. "Where the hell's our medicine and clothes?" asked another. "You can't put us in a cage," Ben said, "and not even meet our needs."

Daryl stepped forward, but Rick silenced him with a look. The sheriff's tired-eyed diplomacy was wearing thin on both sides. Beth watched helplessly as he fought for some sort of order.

All the while, Glenn struggled for Rick's attention. When Maggie added her own voice, Rick finally acknowledged him. He picked up on their urgency.

Rick assured Ben his complaints would be addressed—just not now—and gestured for Maggie, Glenn, Daryl, and Hershel to follow him to the cafeteria.

Beth's stomach clenched with worry. She decided she needed something to occupy her mind and had begun walking in the other direction (toward Judith's cell) when Rick stopped abruptly and looked back. "Beth?" When she turned around, Rick nodded toward the cafeteria.

After a moment's hesitation, the blonde joined the rest of the group, ignoring Hershel's raised eyebrows. And in spite of their grim expressions, Beth had a feeling she could only describe as weightlessness.

* * *

Rick held his palm beneath his eyes like it was there to catch them. He nodded slowly and rolled his neck with a grimace. If it weren't unseemly, Beth would've rubbed it for him.

"Electricity," he repeated. "The whole town?"

Glenn nodded. "Diesel generators, she told us. And apparently they never turn them off."

"How's that possible?" Rick asked. "You saw how Jenner burned fuel—and that was one guy for a month. How'd they get their hands on all that gas?"

Daryl said, "I don't know the how, but I know the who. Same guy been killin' walkers: 'The Prophet.'"

"The Prophet," Rick repeated, and it was bitter on his tongue. "How do you suppose you get a name like that?"

Glenn reached into his bag and pulled out a fifty-page handwritten manuscript. He tossed it on the table in front of Rick. The cover read: _The_ _New Word of God_. Rick flipped it open, then glanced at Maggie.

"According to the townsfolk, he been touched by the Lord," she said. "God delivered a new gospel, and gave him special protection to make sure it's heard."

"Special protection?"

"He's…" Glenn paused. "Whatever happens to us when we die… doesn't happen to him."

Rick narrowed his eyes. "That right?"

"Look, I don't believe it either," Daryl said. "But that town does." He gestured to the manuscript. "To them, that shit's as real as Sunday morning."

Rick flipped it open and scanned a few pages. He read one passage out loud: "_And to you who know the devotion of my servant, stand ready in his shadow, for what Jesus Christ cured with love must now be cured with fire. Though people think and demons do not, their evil is the same. You must cleanse this earth so it be fit for My Kingdom."_

Hershel shared an uneasy look with his daughters.

"That's his mission with the walkers," Beth suggested. "Preparing God's kingdom."

"It's not just walkers," Glenn added grimly.

Rick read the passage again. "_Though people speak and demons do not, they share the same evil_." He looked down and said, "I reckon anyone not been 'saved' by this Prophet oughta lock the door."

He sighed and pushed the book away, leaning back. "Where did he come from? Is he military?"

"I don't know," Daryl said. "People in town didn't care much about his history. He might as well have been born right in front of them."

"Someone's gotta know something," Rick insisted. He picked the book up for emphasis. "Something more than _this_. I wanna know something real about him."

Glenn glanced hesitantly at Daryl, who stared back before shrugging his shoulders. Rick waited expectantly.

"There may be someone," Glenn said.

* * *

What a strange invention: coffee shops. In the old world, it was a billion-dollar industry; people paid to go sit somewhere and drink coffee and browse the internet when they could do it at home for considerably cheaper. Humans seem to be hardwired to turn everything into luxury.

Café le Paris was a refuge for those who found Starbucks gauche. They served the exact same drinks, but people paid for the French names. And even when the shop was empty—windows smashed out, cups lying everywhere, plants dying or overgrown—it bestowed on its visitors the false sense of culture.

Rick and Daryl climbed out of the car. Glenn followed, adjusting his baseball cap.

"I hate these places," Daryl said.

"You know, I never could tell the difference between good coffee and bad coffee," Rick mused. "A clean filter maybe. I suppose that would do it."

Glenn asked, "Did you drink coffee, Daryl?"

"Yeah. Couldn't taste it through the whiskey, though."

Rick smiled slightly, even as he drew his gun and approached the front entrance.

The door was cracked open just enough to both comfort and unnerve them. With a quick glance at Daryl, who raised his crossbow, Rick pushed the door open and slid inside.

Seated in the center of the café were the man and the girl from Mableton. A pistol lay on the table, but the man made no move for it. He received the group calmly.

Rick inspected him closely before holstering his gun. Daryl took the hint and laid his crossbow on the counter.

"Are you Rick?" the man asked.

"That's right. And you are?"

"My name's Mason. This is Gracie."

The girl waved awkwardly.

"It's nice to meet you," Rick said politely. "You her dad?"

Gracie laughed like the notion were absurd. When Rick only frowned, she sobered and said, "He's not—we're just, uh…" She shrugged finally. "I guess you could call us partners."

Mason gave her a muted smile. "We met in Cataula, in a parking garage. I just about blew her head off before I realized she wasn't one of 'them.' Gracie was on her way to Atlanta."

"And you?" Rick asked.

"I wasn't on my way to anywhere. I figured life's better with company, so…"

Rick nodded and asked Gracie: "Why Atlanta?"

"My mom—my _birth_ mom lived there," Gracie explained. "I just wanted to be with someone I knew."

Rick was sure she hadn't found her, so he spared the girl the question. After a long moment's study, he finally took the seat across from them. And he lay his gun beside Mason's as a good will gesture.

"So how'd you two end up in paradise?" Rick asked.

Gracie snorted, drawing a smile from Mason. "Wasn't quite paradise when we got there," Mason said. "The 'town' was about 25 people hiding in shops. It was just as broken as everywhere else. But I guess it's true what they say—'safety in numbers.' And we'd had too many close calls."

"The people were kinda weird," Gracie added, "but they seemed nice enough. They could've turned us away."

"When was that?" Rick asked.

Mason thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. Six months ago—maybe eight. It was hard to keep track back then."

Rick could sympathize. He remembered how last winter had seemed one endless day; he didn't sleep or adopt mundane routines or pay particular attention to the change from light to dark to light.

"And what about the Prophet?" he asked.

Just at his mention, the air in the room changed—thickened. There was weight and fear and mystery in the name.

Mason leaned forward and said, "We'd been there a couple months, scrounging up what we could, just trying to stay alive. It was a rough haul, man. We were barely holding on." He scratched the stubble on his chin. "We were standing at the edge of something pretty bad when some strangers rolled through. Three of them altogether. Unarmed. They looked totally calm. Honestly, I'm not sure I knew anyone that calm even before the plague. They were a little dirty—just from being on the road—but they were impeccable. Couple of them were in Edwardian dinner suits."

"What the hell is an 'Edwardian dinner suit?'" Daryl demanded.

"Old-timey clothes," Gracie said.

"Then just say that," Daryl groused. "We ain't fuckin' tailors."

The girl grinned a little. Daryl was so damn surly, but less serious than Rick at least.

Mason ignored him. "I could tell right away that one of them was leading and the others were followers. I guess he just had a way about him."

"How did people take him?" Rick asked.

"They thought he was crazy at first. Or a liar," Mason said. "Everyone listened, but no one took him seriously. Until the demonstration."

Rick gave him a condescending smile. "Right. The 'demonstration.'"

"Look, you can believe whatever you want, but I saw it with my own eyes," Mason replied, a little frustrated. "That guy dragged a roamer right to the middle of town and let it chow down on his arm. I saw it happen. I saw the skin in its teeth and the blood pouring it. I watched him black out from the pain. And I watched as hours and days went by and he didn't die, and he didn't turn. His arm healed."

Rick breathed slowly, looking into Mason's eyes. Most people have "tells" to help you sniff out poker bluffs and criminal lies. And he decided the light in Mason's eyes was memory and not invention. He glanced at Gracie.

"It's true," the girl said. "I saw it too. Was fucking gross."

Rick glanced off, wistful, and his eyes dropped tiredly. "It's a shame then. Damn shame. 'Cause I knew someone could've done some good with this." At Mason's stare, he added: "Last year, we went to the CDC—met a guy named Jenner workin' on a cure. But he didn't have what he needed. And he's gone now."

Mason studied Rick and the others, thinking how hard they looked. They'd done things, been through things, the same as him. He deliberated briefly and glanced at Gracie, who gave him a timid nod. "What if I told you there was someone else out there working on a cure?" The others perked up. "The government's not dead. Or not _as_ dead as people think, at least."

"What are you talking about?" Rick demanded.

"Fort Benning," Gracie said. "I was there. The army's in control. And they're in touch with—with whatever's left of the government."

Rick's eyes widened. "We heard Fort Benning was overrun."

"I'm not surprised. I don't think they want anyone to know. Bandits are fucking everywhere down there."

"But they took you in—the army?"

"Yeah. They tried to take care of whoever they came across."

"And a cure?" Rick pressed. "They're workin' on a cure?"

Gracie nodded. "Up north—in Nebraska."

A dark memory rushed into Rick's mind. "I heard a rumor about that. About trains to Nebraska."

"They said they were preparing a quarantine zone. Said once it was ready, they'd bring people from all over. They promised we'd be safe there."

Daryl rolled his eyes. "I bet they got cotton candy too. And the sky rains beer."

"Don't be an asshole," Gracie snarled. "I'm telling the truth. Why the fuck would I make this up? What would I get out of it?"

"I believe you," Rick said. He glanced at Daryl, and it was enough to silence him. He turned to Mason. "So what is it you want from us?"

"We've been planning for months how to get back to Fort Benning," Mason said, "but it's a long haul just the two of us. Too dangerous with all the bandits. I don't think we'd make it." Gracie looked dubious, as if they'd argued about it before. "But a bigger group, like the one you have…"

Rick looked down, lips pursed tightly. He wiped at his eyes and stood up, walking in a gentle arc around Glenn and Daryl. "What about the Prophet? He know about Fort Benning?"

"Probably," Mason admitted.

"Is he a threat to them?"

Mason was silent for a time, his eyes black little slits. He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned forward like the reduced distance could force sense into Rick's brain. "You're not understanding yet," he said. "I bet you think you've met bad people. And that you've seen what depravities come out of a human mind. But whoever you've met, and whatever you've seen, it's a child's tantrum by comparison. I suppose God invented violence, as he did everything, but even he couldn't know what that man would do with it."

Rick stared for a moment, expressionless, before walking to the window to look out. The horizon, peeking between two buildings, glimmered in the distance.

"What about the cure?" Glenn asked.

"When we get to Fort Benning, we'll tell them about the Prophet—about how he's immune," Mason answered. "After that, it's on them. Let the army sort it out while we're on a train."

Glenn and Daryl looked to Rick, as they always did. It was a comforting instinct, one the whole group shared, and no one cared that it wasn't especially fair. He was their compass.

Rick squinted, and the horizon solidified. It's strange, he thought, the tricks that are played by your senses and by your mind. It's a wonder we ever tell what _is_ from what _isn't_.

The sun blurred his eyes, and when he turned back, Mason and Gracie seemed to hover like figments—like Dream Lori. The whole room was soft around the edges.

Rick sighed tiredly. "I'll think about it."

* * *

A parent knows a child in a way they're unknowable by anyone else. Some say there's a psychic link; others say we just recognize ourselves in them.

Hershel often knew what his daughters were thinking and could predict their course before it was decided on—especially Beth, for she lacked Maggie's complexity. That's not to say Beth wasn't rounded, or that she lacked sophistication. She just couldn't hide anything and rarely even tried.

Lately, she'd been anxious. At first, he figured it was trauma from the shootout. But as the days wore on, and he observed her behavior in the company of certain people, the real culprit came into focus. He suspected Maggie was aware, as well, though they didn't discuss the matter.

Beth was back to folding laundry. When he hobbled into the room, she was humming an old hymn. The rhythmic clop of his crutches drew a smile from her as she turned.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Hi, Bethy. Just wanted to check on you," the old man said carefully, his own smile failing to reach his eyes. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doin' fine. Just tryin' to keep busy. I guess I get anxious when they're gone."

"I'm sure Rick is fine," Hershel said pointedly.

Beth furrowed her brow, and then a faint blush rose. It was all he needed. He set one of the crutches aside and leaned heavily on the other, resting his chin atop his hand. He wore a fatherly mask that was comforting and condescending.

"You've been spending a lot of time together," he said.

"He's lonely."

"Plenty of people for him to talk to."

"Then why don't they?" Beth retorted, a little fiercely. She wrinkled her nose. "No one talks to him 'less they need something. How do you think that feels?"

Hershel studied her for a long moment. It took a lot to wake up her anger, but it was alert now and pursuing him. He nodded placatingly. "You're right. I don't doubt that's hard for him. And it's only natural that you'd be grateful for what he does."

Beth shook her head. "It's not—it ain't just that. I talk to him for the joy that's in it. He's got interesting things to say, and he cares about what I think."

His face fell a little as the last part sunk in. It was natural for a young girl to mistake kindness and understanding for something deeper. But he knew this could only end in pain.

It would be easier if he hadn't noticed Rick's encouraging responses. The sheriff had honor, but in his fragile state seemed capable of anything. Tragedy and pain eroded restraint.

Hershel said, "Rick's a good man, but he has his troubles. It's best you not get caught in them."

"He ain't a spider, Daddy. His feelings ain't some scurvy little web. We help each other. Isn't that the point of this place? Why it's worth it to keep the walkers out?"

"Bethy, there's more colors in the world than the two you seem to see."

She folded one of Rick's shirts, smoothing the wrinkles out. Then she yanked out a loose thread. She had a far-off look and her eyes were cast down. "It's pretty simple, really. We wake up every day waitin' to be gutted. And every moment before I am, I'm gonna try to be happy."

Beth moved on to the next shirt. "He cares about what I think," she repeated softly.


	7. All We Got is Our Reasons

**A/N:** Hello, all! Though RL continues to beat me down, I'm writing when I can. This story is fun to work on.

Many thanks to everyone who provided feedback last chapter. It's so very much appreciated, and I hope you'll let me know what you think of this latest installment. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

It was all a little hard to believe.

They spoke of tanks and C4 and fuel trucks, working factories and a commandeered base down south—and merely imagining it reduced Woodbury to a band of children playing fort. It seemed quaint now to have feared the Governor.

To his followers and his kin, there was no gentler spirit than the Prophet, it was said. But the sinners—the non-believers—he owed them a wrath that put blood myths to shame. Mason's eyes were hooded and Gracie's head down when they recounted a group of bandits burned alive in one town. The people in Mableton abided such things as necessary cleansing.

Whatever trouble it might bring, Rick promised the two asylum. They seemed capable enough, and he didn't have it in him to turn away a young girl. Rick would scratch and claw to keep her safe, just like everyone else at the prison. And as for the other stuff—Fort Benning and trains and Nebraska—well, he'd think about it. But the allure of a safe place—a _truly_ safe place—was strong. Maybe it wasn't real; maybe it was a dream. But Rick had taught Carl from a young age that dreams are worth fighting for.

When they got back to the prison, Beth was waiting by the entrance with one of those half-frown, half-smile looks that made his breath catch. She seemed strangely self-conscious, but pushed through it and folded him into a hug. He returned the gesture, letting his chin sit on her shoulder a fraction of a second before he caught Hershel's eyes and quickly let go.

Rick smiled awkwardly before the rest of the group entered. And as Mason and Gracie appeared, the Woodbury residents quickly filed in, portraying various iterations of surprise and trepidation.

Ben pushed through the small crowd to the front. He looked to Rick and demanded, "Who are they?"

The sheriff walked to his guests, placing a gentle hand on their backs as he introduced them: "This is Gracie, and Mason. Some new friends we met outside. I've asked them to join us."

Ben's eyes hardened. "Is that a fact?"

"They're capable," Rick said. "They've both been on the road—know these parts as well as anyone. They can show us where to find supplies."

Gracie stepped forward, nervously twisting one hand in the other, and said: "We won't be a burden. We'll pull our weight. I know how to do all kinds of stuff. I can cook and I can sew, and I can hunt too. I'm not as young as I look."

"You look like you're about fourteen," Ben said.

Gracie frowned. "O… kay. Maybe I am as young as I look."

Before more complaints could rain down, Hershel's voice cut through. He looked at Ben and said kindly, "I can understand people's trepidation. We've all got enough work looking out for ourselves." He turned his gaze on some of the women. "But don't forget that the 'we' didn't include all of you until Rick thought to take you in. These two here just want the same chance."

From some hidden corner of the room, Rick could hear Carl snort in disgust. He looked down and blew out a sharp breath. When he raised his head again, he was carefully calm.

"There's a spare cell they can share down by me," he said, adding: "They won't be in anyone's way."

Gracie took in her new neighbors. A few seemed sympathetic, but most were skeptical and cold.

She was despairing of her decision before a young blonde woman approached with an encouraging smile. Her voice was soft and kind. "You wanna go put your stuff down? I can show you around."

Gracie nodded gratefully and, with a quick look at Mason, followed Beth away from the group and down the corridor.

Ben watched them go, staring daggers at their backs, and said to Rick: "That conversation? I think it's time we had it."

Somehow that made Rick look even tireder, further depressed the sharp features of his face. But he couldn't put this off. People wanted answers, and he had to give them something. He glanced at Daryl, who took his meaning and nodded, then set off with Ben to find a quiet place to talk.

The Woodbury group began to disperse, returning to their routines. That left Daryl and Mason and the rest—Carol, Michonne, Tyrese, Sasha, Hershel, Glenn, Maggie, and Carl.

When he was sure Ben's group was out of earshot, Tyrese approached Daryl. "Any chance you can tell us what the hell is going on?"

* * *

Rick sat down heavily, crossing his arms. If he was going to suffer through a diatribe, he'd at least be comfortable for it. Ben was rigid, still, and scowling.

"They're good people," Rick said.

"Yeah, I'm sure they are," Ben said bitterly. "Just like that boy of yours is 'good people.' So good he left a child to the biters. It's a hell of a ship you're running here."

"You could try your luck elsewhere. I hear Woodbury's nice."

Ben let out a bark of sardonic laughter, shaking his head. His eyebrows pushed together to form a long crevice from his forehead to his nose. He turned away, pacing a few steps and rubbing his eyes.

"Shit, Rick," he said in a low voice. "I'm trying to make the best of this, but it's pretty hard with all the crap your people pull."

It was easy for Rick to let someone take a shot at him. Even before the plague, that was built into his expectations. But his patience wore thin where others were concerned.

"'My people' put that shirt on your back. 'My people' put food in your belly," Rick fired back. "I don't see anyone volunteering to take their place on a run—unless this conversation is your way of applying. You're welcome to see what's out there."

Ben's eyes darkened. "You're awful smug about what you've made here, aren't you?" When Rick only stared nonchalantly, he growled: "Whatever control you think you have, whatever it is you think you've created, it doesn't change what came before it."

"And what's that?"

"Whole lotta death in your crew." He looked Rick in the eye for perhaps the first time. "Your friends… family."

Rick snarled and stood up, and warned: "Ben, I'd take care with what you say next."

"You ever ask yourself why you stay here, Rick?"

"Because it's the safest place we can be."

"Safe from people? The Governor proved otherwise. Or maybe you meant the biters. I'd ask you how that turned out, but I already know."

Rick made a fist and coiled back on his heels. "You got some ideas? Put 'em on the table. Otherwise, I think we're done talking."

Ben was fit for his age, but had no desire for a fight. He studied Rick closely. And after a long moment, he sighed finally and glanced off.

"The very least we expect is to be kept in the loop," Ben said, adopting a more respectful tone. "If you mean what you say, then this is our home too. We deserve to know."

Rick's fist clenched and unclenched and clenched again, before finally relaxing. He took a long breath and stared right into Ben's eyes.

"There's nothing going on," he said.

* * *

It felt good to have a kid around. In school, community service had been required, and Beth had chosen Big Sisters. Those instincts were still alive.

Beth told the girl who to stick with and who to avoid. She explained the rules of the prison and why they mattered. And along the way, as she pointed out amenities, she asked gentle probing questions.

Gracie's father died long ago, and she'd been raised by her step-mom, a rigid but kind woman who was infected early on. The girl shared this information as a researcher would data, disconnected from the pain. That was something Mason taught her.

Beth showed her the cell, saying almost apologetically: "This is it. Probably not what you're used to."

Gracie waved off her contrition and flopped down on the bed, staring at the bunk above her. "I slept on a grate for four days once. This is a fucking cloud."

Beth smiled as the girl turned to one side and then the other, restlessly imbibing her surroundings.

"Where's yours?" Gracie asked.

"It's the next block over."

"Who's in this block?"

"Rick, Glenn, Maggie, Carl…"

"Rick seems nice."

Beth's mouth tightened at the edges; she nodded awkwardly.

Gracie studied her, and after a moment her eyes widened with realization. She bolted upright. "Holy shit—you're hitting that!"

"Wh—what?" Beth stammered. "I'm—no."

"You so are. It's all over your face."

"I'm not! I swear on a stack of Bibles."

Gracie watched her eyes dart all over and a faint blush creep onto her cheeks. "Well, if you're not, then you want to. What is he—like eighty?"

Beth said, "He's thirty-six" with a little agitation.

"So what's stopping you—he married?"

The blonde girl frowned, and then sighed softly. "He was."

"Oh." Some of the steam went out of Gracie. Her face slackened to portray sympathy, and her voice was quieter without mischief to season it. "How'd it happen?"

"She died in labor. He was cut off from her—couldn't be there. I think he blames himself."

"He seems like the type." She watched with some fascination the turmoil and desire and sadness and hope flash in Beth's eyes, and she wondered if those things, taken in sum, compose what we all call love. "Maybe he needs to know." Beth frowned quizzically. "That it's not his fault," Gracie added. "Maybe he needs to hear it."

Beth glanced down, considering this, and she was of two minds: one thought to give Rick what he needed, while the other feared that in doing so she might push him out of reach. You see, all people are addicts. The difference is degrees and the type of vice that holds us. Despite its destructive power, Rick required guilt to keep his brain in balance. If she resolved to take it from him, it would necessitate patience and persistence and unrelenting warmth. But Beth had no deficit of those things.

She sat down on the bed beside Gracie. The girl said nothing. They sat in comfortable silence.

* * *

Reactions had varied.

Tyrese deferred to Rick's judgment, while Sasha thought accepting the defectors was the wrong move. Carol and Hershel were happy to take to accept Gracie and Mason, but felt the Prophet's new threat was sufficient cause to pack up and hit the road again. Glenn and Maggie were ambivalent, while Michonne seemed to have an opinion but kept it to herself.

After the discussion, they'd split up and gone about their various affairs.

Hershel was in the cafeteria reading from the Bible when Glenn arrived. Helooked up from his passage with a small smile.

He waited for Glenn to speak, but as he received only silence said finally, "Something on your mind, son?"

Glenn walked to the edge of the table and put one boot on the bench, leaning forward on his knee. He sighed softly, thinking, before at last remarking: "I finally got used to some quiet around here."

"Such things don't last."

Glenn nodded slightly. Despair wormed through his chest in contrast to Hershel's peace.

He gestured to Hershel's Bible and asked, "Don't you ever wonder about that? About whether…" He trailed off, earning a look of sympathy.

"I've had my moments," Hershel said. "It isn't faith if you've never asked a question. Is there one you've got in mind?"

"The obvious one, I guess. Why he'd let this happen. Why he'd send his son to die for us and then pull all of this."

Hershel nodded understandingly. He smoothed down his beard and tucked the ends under. After a long moment, he thought of the appropriate words. "'As you do not know the way of the wind, or how the bones grow in the womb of her who is with child, so you do not know the works of God who makes everything.'"

Glenn said a little bitterly, "I don't know which way the wind blows, but I know it carries death."

"It does. It also carried you to my farm—to Maggie," Hershel countered, catching him off-guard. "Now suppose the Lord came to you and said, 'Glenn, I think I'll shoot Carl today. Is that what you want, or should I leave the boy be?' How would you have answered?"

Glenn's mouth set in a grim line. He dipped his head, staring at the bench, and rubbed his neck. He looked up after some moments with a distant expression.

"I would've told him to ask Rick."

* * *

Rick climbed the steps to the viewing platform, rifle slung over his shoulder. He walked to the edge and looked out over their makeshift kingdom. The walkers had thinned out since evening came, leaving a small but earnest group to rattle the fences.

As he peered into the night, Ben's accusations hung in the air.

The hands of a dozen ghosts squeezed his lungs. Amy, Jim, Jacqui, Sophia, Dale, Patricia, T-Dog, Axel, Merle, Andrea… Shane… Lori. Each of them left their own special scar. Figment Amy had said they were somewhere safe that day on the telephone. And yet somehow he knew they weren't.

Every day, Rick looked at the present through the mist of past; there were moments—wonderful moments—when the haze cleared enough for him to peer at the world, but then the color would darken and block it all out, so that all he had was that which _was_ and the terrible fear that what was would_ be_.

He didn't notice he had company until the slender figure leaned forward on the railing and gave him a gentle smile.

"Hey," her soft voice said.

Rick smiled back out of habit, but it was a poor effort. He rubbed his eyes with his palm.

"You look so tired," Beth tenderly observed. "You haven't been sleeping."

Rick nodded, but offered no comment. He held her eyes for a moment, then looked out at the dark. He forced some spirit into his voice and asked, "How's Gracie settling in?"

She blushed slightly, but Rick didn't notice. "Pretty well, I think. I can tell it's like you said: she won't be a burden."

Rick nodded, a distant look on his face. "It's funny," he said. "Used to be we'd judge someone by the mercy they showed the helpless. Now no one's got the time for 'em."

Beth ran her fingertips over his elbow, then dropped her hand before he could react. "I think it's a strength you got that you can't turn away."

"Lotta good that 'strength' has done us," he said tiredly.

"I know you carry things, Rick. You accumulate them. And if there's one thing I wish for you, it's that you'd find a place to put them. Because no one's meant to haul around the things that's on your heart."

He lowered his head, taking a measured breath. "There's mistakes I made."

"Sometimes things happen, and they ain't nobody's fault," she told him, voice barely above a whisper, its gentle tenor massaging his mind. "You can't keep walkers from their instinct, or protect everyone all the time."

Rick was silent, and for a moment she thought he was considering it, but his unfocused eyes placed him in a memory. His neck and shoulders seemed to tighten, if that were possible, and his tongue roughly thrust against the skin inside his mouth.

He smiled sadly.

"I used to see her sometimes. Used to see her a lot," he said.

"Lori?"

"Used to see her everywhere. The catwalk, the cell block, the woods outside. Wearing a white dress—more pure than you are at birth."

Beth ached for him. "What did she say to you?"

"Nothing. Just… sort of stared at me. When I'd get close, she'd be gone somewhere else."

"Do you still see her?"

Rick sighed, shaking his head after a moment. He rolled his neck and winced, straightening up. Then he rubbed his eyes again. "No. She's gone now—in every sense of it."

He'd accepted she was dead, learned to live with it, but whatever peace that gave to others had clearly brought none to him. He could never truly heal until he was unchained from his guilt. She wanted so badly to rip off the shackles and give him what he needed.

Beth leaned in, so that he was forced to look at her, and placed her small hand over his.

"It's not your fault," she said, so quiet he strained to hear. "None of it."

Rick shuddered slightly, narrowing his eyes. He shook his head. "Beth…"

"You got no idea the good that's in you," she continued, stroking his knuckles. "I seen so many bad people, in the Old World and this one. You think 'cause you done things, it makes you something less. But what you've done, you did for the right reasons. And that's all we got is our reasons."

He glanced away. Her voice and her touch were like hypnotic suggestions. It would be so easy to give in, to push the truth off a cliff in the presence of her softness. But Rick's sense of obligation, his sense of self and of consequences, were more hardy than that.

He looked down at her hand, pale and perfect, and shut his eyes against the urge to grip it, against the need to look at her mouth. But in his mind's eye, he could already see it. He wanted to touch her, to know what her lips were like. She smelled like lilacs.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and some similar need was reflected back at him. He took a sharp breath, staring at her mouth.

"**RICK!"**

The sheriff snapped his eyes away, finding the source of the voice at the tower across from him. It was Karen.

He took his rifle from his shoulder and peered through the scope at the main gate below, spotting two human outlines in the darkness. They approached the fence slowly, a trail of dead walkers behind them, with only a handheld lantern to guide their path.

Rick lowered the rifle and glanced at Beth. "You reckon you can aim this?" he asked, presenting the gun to her. Though she had her doubts, Beth nodded. "Good. You see somethin' that don't look right, you put a bullet in 'em."

He thrust the gun into her hands and disappeared into the stairwell.


	8. Demons at the Doorstep

**A/N: **Hi, all! Many thanks to those who took the time to review. It really is deeply appreciated (Neon, yours are always a particular pleasure). Feedback keeps the writing juices flowing.

I'm a bit unsure about this chapter and labored over it, as it's an important one to the story. I hope it turned out okay. Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Let's see your hands," Glenn ordered in a breathless voice, gun drawn on them.

The men complied, the shorter of them still holding the candle lantern, which cast their faces in an eerie glow. One was well-built but slender, with icy gray eyes, a thin brown beard, and shoulder-length hair tied tightly in the back. His entire ensemble was black—work pants, leather gloves, and a t-shirt with a suit vest overtop. He had a Bowie knife and a Baretta clipped to his belt.

The other man was taller and darker, with broad shoulders and thick arms that could've held up a dam. He had a well-kept goatee that covered severe scarring around his chin and mouth. His affect, like his companion's, was cold and calm. He was dressed identically, except for a leather jacket in place of the vest.

"Salutations," the slender man greeted, a little smile on his face. "I hope we didn't startle you."

"What do you want?" Daryl demanded.

A small crowd had gathered, anchored by Ben and Hershel. Murmurs drifted through the group. Off to the side, Chance postured but didn't bark.

The slender man ran his eyes along the crowd, explaining patiently: "I was hoping to speak with Mr. Grimes."

He looked over Daryl's shoulder, watching the mass of people part to allow Rick a path forward.

Any trace of fatigue had been banished from the sheriff. His eyes were clear and resolute and he moved in steady, deliberate steps. He assessed the two visitors, taking note of approaching walkers but not feeling hurried.

Rick walked to the fence, setting one hand on his hip so his gun was an inch away.

"Little late to ring the doorbell," he said.

The slender man looked chagrined. "Please forgive the hour. It's much easier traveling in the dark."

Rick glanced at the larger man, who stared back passively. "It's not often someone asks for me by name."

"Yes, we have you at a disadvantage, I'm afraid," the slender man said. "My name is Matthew. This is Simon. Our friends in Mableton told us about your group. We've come to exchange amenities on behalf of the Prophet."

Rick glanced at Daryl, who gave the slightest shake of his head. He drummed his fingers against his hip and considered the matter.

On the other side of the fence, a pair of walkers closed in. Rick watched as the larger man, Simon, unsheathed his knife and split their heads open. All the while, Matthew was still, eyes locked on Rick.

A small smirk crossed the sheriff's face. He turned to Glenn. "Open the gate."

* * *

Beth lowered the rifle, watching tensely as Rick and one of the strangers entered the prison.

Were they from Mableton? How did they find the prison? Had they followed Daryl and the others? Maybe they were friendly—why else would Rick let them in?

She wanted desperately to go have her questions answered, but with Rick gone from his post, she knew the prudent thing was to remain and keep watch. The consequences of an abandoned post were still sharply in focus after their run-in with the gun thieves.

Resigning herself to this, Beth narrowed her eyes seriously and looked out over the yard and at the landscape. She swatted off the tendrils of worry waving around her brain. She kept to her task like Rick would expect of her.

* * *

Rick took the long way through the uninhabited parts, exposing as little of the prison as possible. He led him through the old infirmary, cold and damp and stripped down, into the warden's office.

It was the first time Rick had stepped foot in there. He avoided looking around to create the impression it was familiar. But Matthew gazed around slowly.

He walked to the desk where a Newton's Cradle sat. He set the balls in motion and watched as they clattered back and forth. After a few moments, he said wistfully, "I never understood how these worked."

"Just took it on faith?" Rick asked dryly.

Matthew gave a small smile and killed the balls' momentum. He walked to the bookshelf, smearing dust on two fingers, and said, "Your skepticism of us is understandable. You've built something important here. To convince people that life can be rich even with demons at the doorstep…" He nodded to himself and said, "It must be a burden to protect that."

Rick said emotionlessly, "I do what needs doing."

"I'm sure it's not been easy."

"Nothing's easy. That's the world we been given."

Matthew squinted slightly and wiped the dust on his pants. He sighed sympathetically. "It's a sad thing what people do when there's no authority. Your group is lucky to have you."

"My only 'authority' is in the trust people put in me," Rick said.

"Because they know you'll do what's right."

"Right's a point of view."

Matthew said patiently, "Not in the eyes of God, Mr. Grimes."

"Well," Rick said, "I keep my walkie on if he's got any pointers."

Matthew laughed humorlessly, examining with an inscrutable expression a family photo on the wall. Rick watched him, searching, but Matthew was unbreachable.

"Quite a thing what your _Prophet's_ done with Mableton," Rick said. Garnering no reaction, he continued: "I knew a guy did something like it, but he only had a few generators. Takes an awful lot of juice to keep a town running."

"The Prophet is generous, and able," Matthew said, glancing into the dark corridor. "I imagine your people would relish a little light."

"Those things got a cost."

A careful sadness played on Matthew's face, like he were counseling a loved one. "There's no price for what we offer, Mr. Grimes. Jesus did not give in order He be worshiped. Charity is its own reward."

"That right?" Rick smirked darkly. "'Cause the way I hear, whole lotta 'justice' bein' given to the ones who don't fall in line."

"We deliver justice, it's true; but not with a hatchet, Mr. Grimes—a scalpel. We clean the earth of those who would clutter what we're building." His voice was steady and serene. "Your people are not clutter; you are not the cause of the ills we are correcting. We very much want you to be part of what's to come."

"And what's that?"

"The new kingdom, sir. The realization of our potential. And when we've created a world that's worthy, He will come down from Heaven to be with His children."

There was such conviction in him, such force of idealism, that Rick understood now how the fearful would attach themselves.

"There room in that kingdom for non-believers?"

Matthew gave him a caring look. "The righteous," he said, "arrive at truth at different speeds. The Prophet knows this, and he's a man of great patience. He would no more hasten faith than a child's first words. And he sees something in your people—in you, Mr. Grimes."

"And what does he see?"

"The same balance he demands between mercy and justice." Matthew dropped his voice the way one does when they _mean_ something. He said, so earnestly, "It's that thing inside you, that special understanding of the life God wants for us, that made you scour the woods for weeks for a scared little girl. And the thing that made you slaughter the six men who stole from you."

Rick's heart thumped in his chest. He could feel his pulse in his ears.

Matthew's face told him nothing, guarded as ever by unpierceable tenderness. When the sheriff's hand twitched, he made a fist to still it, but his tightly wound mouth revealed all anyway.

Rick set his jaw against the blood and bone that filled his mind's eye.

* * *

There was nothing he could do. Short of restraining Ben's people, Daryl couldn't stop them from engaging with their guest. The cord was thin between his group and Woodbury's, and each command given weakened its fibers. He stood helplessly as Simon proselytized.

"It's not something I came to easily," Simon said. "I've seen my share of trouble—of blood. But I truly believe in what he's trying to make."

Noah fidgeted self-consciously. "But… but you're really—there's places without biters? You've made places safe?"

"Yes. We've burned and beaten them, and cast them to Hell. This world's not theirs; it belongs us." Hershel frowned, and Simon hastened to add: "_All_ of us. Human beings."

Maggie asked, "What exactly you got planned when the walkers are gone?"

"'When the demons have been vanquished,'" Simon quoted from the New Word, "'the seven lamps shall be extinguished, the throne of God shall be vacated, and He will join his children in everlasting peace in the garden He created for them.'"

Daryl rolled his eyes. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Noah jumped in, peppering Simon with further questions as a boy might an athlete. He asked about Mableton, whether there were TVs and computers, and about where the Prophet lived and how he saw to the comforts that his chosen town enjoyed. Simon was vague, but gave the impression of answering. Soon Noah was joined by others from his group, and their questions were every bit as banal and enthusiastic.

There was a sense of momentum, and Glenn became more and more concerned. The people of Woodbury, he believed, were not as worldly as he was—had not experienced the worst of human beings. These people could be turned.

"This isn't good," Maggie whispered in his ear. "Where's Rick?"

* * *

"I don't know what game you're playing," Rick snarled, "but you're playing with the wrong man."

Matthew raised his palms submissively. "I'm not here to play games, Mr. Grimes. I had no intention of arousing your anger. I only wanted to convey the Prophet's admiration." Rick's eyes fiercened, and Matthew went on: "It was important you realize that he _knows_ you. His respect—his belief in you—it comes from a place of knowledge."

"What does that mean?" Rick demanded.

"Through God, sir. Through the same channel as he received the gospel, God showed him your heart. All its pain and sacrifice, and all it has left to do," Matthew said with sincerity. "And that's why the Prophet sent me. That's why it's important that you meet."

"His invitation is declined," Rick gnarled.

Matthew smiled sadly, meeting anger with serenity. "He told me you'd say that," he explained. "You're such a practical man. And he understands. So he gave me something. Something I'm to give to you. Something no one but God could offer."

Matthew thrust a gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of stationary. It was plain white paper, with black ink showing through where the writer had pressed too hard.

Matthew held it in front of him.

"What is this?"

"It's a message," Matthew said gently. "A message from your wife."

Rick froze, hand suspended in the air. The color drained from his face but slowly, like a resetting Etch A Sketch. He stared at the note for a long moment before finally taking it.

He unfolded it and read its contents.

The faint lines on his face deepened. The skin crinkled around his temples. And for an instant, the layers above his burden were all peeled away so that the air could touch it.

His eyes dampened. But as he finished reading, he blinked back the weakness. And through sheer will, his face became stoic.

He folded up the paper and with hatred in his heart met the man's gaze.

* * *

They'd heard some kind of commotion, but its nature wasn't clear. With an uneasy feeling, he told Gracie to stay put. She didn't care for such directives, but obliged with just a pout.

Mason left the cell block and walked outside. That side of the prison was empty, with nothing in sight but a small band of walkers pawing at the fence. He paused in front of them, taking a long look from his place of safety.

There was something deeply sad in them, like sentient minds were in there drowning and aware of the experience. Their eyes held none of the vacancy it brought comfort to ascribe to them. In that moment, if he shot them where they stood, he thought he might be a murderer.

A mewling little girl, with auburn hair like Gracie's, was part-naked in a tattered sun dress. She was fairly new in her condition, so that from a distance she may have only appeared ill, and as she strained against the fence with an instinct to gnaw on him, he had a brief and inane urge to stick his hand out and give her what she required.

He'd done a lot of reading through the years about the after life, about white lights in comas and Nirvana and reincarnation. If this was life after death, if this was a next step on the pathway to enlightenment, then the spirit of the universe deserved all our evils.

Mason glanced off and shook the thoughts from his head. He walked the length of the prison wall in the direction of the courtyard.

In the distance, he saw a crowd gathered. And just ahead and above him, a young woman looked down through a rifle scope into the mass of people.

With a grim feeling, Mason entered the watchtower and climbed the steps to find Beth at the top. She jerked the gun toward him, sending Mason reeling back.

"Woh!" he shrieked. "Sorry. I…"

Beth sighed and pointed the rifle down.

"What's going on down there?" he asked.

"I donno. Couple guys showed up—Rick walked off with one." She was frazzled and worried, and before Mason could even respond, Beth's eyes lit up. She looked at the rifle and then at him. "I bet you know how to use one of these. Prob'ly a better a shot than me, right?"

He only looked at her quizzically.

"Here," she said quickly, thrusting it in his arms. "I need you to keep watch. I gotta go see what's goin' on."

"Wait, hold on a sec—"

Beth muttered a hurried "thanks" and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Mason to hold the rifle like it were someone else's child.

He furrowed his brow and sighed. Mason pressed his eye to the scope and peered down at the courtyard. He looked past Hershel and Daryl and Ben, until the crosshairs landed on Simon.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

Beth walked through the cell block toward the courtyard, an unnameable fear clawing at her insides.

It was the same feeling she'd had when Rick took on the thieves, and when he'd gone to rescue Maggie, and when he'd returned to his hometown. Beth had an allergy to his peril.

She was just about to the courtyard when Glenn marched in purposefully.

"You seen Rick?" he asked.

"No, I was—just—what's going on?"

"Couple guys showed up saying the Prophet sent them. Rick went off with one."

Beth wrinkled her nose. "You let him?"

"You know a lot of people who can stop Rick from doing what he wants?" Glenn asked with a condescending glare. He continued walking, forcing Beth to keep pace. "I gotta find him before this gets out of hand."

"Wha'do you mean 'gets outta hand'?" she questioned.

Glenn didn't answer, and Beth's follow-up was cut off when Gracie came walking up, bouncing on her feet like a cartoon tiger despite her serious face. She sensed something was wrong immediately.

"Um, hey—hey, where you guys going?" When they kept walking, she jogged to catch up. "Beth? What's up?"

The blonde smiled reassuringly. "We're just looking for Rick."

Before Gracie could question further, the gate to the next block creaked open and two men walked through.

At first, it was hard to make them out. The night was black, and as the prison had little lighting, they were as much shadows as people. It was a few seconds before Rick Grimes crystallized in front of them.

For a moment, Gracie smiled. But her mood transformed when Matthew's eyes exploded through the black.

His eerie calm and invulnerable confidence brought tribulations rushing back. In an instant, Gracie's mind was a kaleidoscope of nightmares, reflecting and refracting. She choked on her breath. Her body trembled.

Glenn and Beth were too focused on Rick to notice. The sheriff looked tenantless, staring blankly at a non-existent point.

A shudder ran through Gracie as Matthew laid eyes on her. A slow, cryptic grin spread across his face. His gaze deepened and darkened, and briefly he lost a measure of his control, taking a hungry breath as he looked her over.

That finally got Beth's attention.

"Hello, Gracie," Matthew said tenderly. "I haven't seen you in a while."

Gracie stepped back as Matthew moved toward her like a gentle wrangler. Beth blocked his path.

He said disarmingly, "It's all right. We're old friends." When Beth remained in place, he grasped her arm to move her.

A hand grabbed his collar and snapped him back violently. Rick dragged him to the nearest cell and threw him against the bars, pain and rage burning in his chest as he pressed a forearm to his throat and dug it in, snarling savagely. Rick looked deep into his eyes.

"**You don't **_**touch**_** her!"** he growled.

Matthew stared back, his initial surprise dissolving into that ever-present calm. Even as he strangled, he peered placidly at Rick. So the sheriff pushed harder.

"Rick!"

Glenn grabbed him around the shoulders and yanked him off.

Matthew slid down the wall, bent at the waist, and took greedy gulps of air as Rick watched him with wild eyes.

Gracie looked between them with a shocked expression, her fear driven off by the chaos.

Beth stole a glance at Rick, wanting to soothe him but feeling obliged to another duty. After a moment's hesitation, she led Gracie out of sight into the next block.

Rick's breathing evened out, the adrenaline leaving him, so that all the rage he'd focused dispersed throughout his body. He watched coldly as Matthew finally stood, the lost oxygen giving his eyes a dreamy quality.

Rick placed his hand on his hip, near but not on his gun.

He said hollowly, "You should have Hershel take a look at that."

* * *

The prison that night was a cauldron of rumors. Noah would misremember something Simon told him, and then the boy he told would put his own spin on it, so that when it reached the third boy it may as well have been mythology.

Rick was nowhere to be found, leaving Hershel to talk down Ben and the others. How can we respect a leader, they asked, who so routinely deceives us? Rick knew about this town, Mableton, and had said nothing? They left Woodbury to get away from the Governor, not to replace him.

There were a few people, like Karen and Mark's Mother, who wanted to cut him a little slack. But Ben made his case like the sermon of a Baptist preacher—and many were beginning to listen.

Daryl let it all unfold, saying very little. He watched as Carol argued vociferously (though to no effect) in Rick's defense. It's funny how things change.

He took a moment to look at Glenn and Maggie, seated on a crate, sharing the comfort of touch and whispers. Daryl was pretty sure love wasn't real, but he figured illusions still had a value.

He wiped his face with a dirty hand, feeling so damn tired. Whatever was going on with Rick better resolve itself quickly, because Daryl wasn't about to be anyone's martyr.

* * *

Beth sat for a while with Gracie, not asking any questions. She remembered as a kid how Maggie would talk her ear off—force information from her, provide unwanted advice—and how what she'd needed was a little peace and quiet.

Beth said nothing, and neither did Gracie. The young girl didn't cry and gave no sign she might start. She looked sad and numb, worn out, and it was somehow more heartbreaking juxtaposed against the cartoon T-Rex on her t-shirt.

After a long period of companionable silence, Mason returned. And upon finding Gracie sitting with a blank look, leaning on her knees, he seemed to know what was wrong immediately.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, sitting down beside her. It drew a weak smile.

Beth stood quietly and moved to the door, looking back to acknowledge Mason's gratitude.

She left to seek out Rick, but he was nowhere to be found. She had an urge to ask around, to wear her boots out until she discovered him, but she decided he might need a little time. Whatever had happened, whatever was said between Matthew and him, had set his mind to anger in a way she'd never seen.

Beth was sitting in her cell, reading a trashy adventure book for the seventh or eighth time, when she looked up to find Rick standing in her doorway. In his fatigue, he swayed a little. All the anger was drained out of him, and he looked pale and sad.

Beth's heart fluttered. She closed the book and set it down. "Rick. Hi."

He gave her a tepid smile.

"Hey."


End file.
